Lelouch of Britannia
by Cal reflector
Summary: History often hinges on a moment. What if young Lelouch avoided the fate of exile and remained with the royal family? All roles become reversed. The tale of Lelouch's quest for power and vengeance as the Black Prince of the Empire.
1. Prelude to the Storm

**I. Prelude to the Storm**

""_In the year 2010 of our Empire, tragedy descended upon the House of Brittania when the seventh queen consort, Queen Marianne, was felled by assassins at the Palace Aries where she resided with her son and daughter. Princess Nunally, then but eight years old, was caught in the crossfire, losing her sight and the use of her legs from wounds to her body and mind. The curious circumstances surrounding the attack and its subsequent investigation, which ended with no suspects and no arrests, fueled the rage and despair inside Prince Lelouch's heart. Though possessing one of the brightest minds ever borne into the royal bloodline, his tender youth could not comprehend the sudden and senseless act which killed and maimed those dearest to him, and how such a travesty could have been permitted to happen. _

_On that warm summer afternoon, four days after Lady Marianne had passed away, Lelouch requested an audience with his father, His Majesty the Emperor Charles Britannia. The meeting, now commonly referred to as The First Disgrace of the Black Prince, would shape his destiny and that of the world forever…"_

_Sir Alfred Huxley; the Rise of the Brittanian Empire, Harvard University Press, 2097"  
_

* * *

The boy stood frozen in the center of the Great Hall, the heart of the Empire, on which the sun never set and whose standard flew over more than a billion souls. To his left and right were the assembly of noble attendants at his father's court, whose pity, amusement, and derision he felt and heard through their sideways glances and their murmured whispers, passed politely behind lacquer fans and manicured hands, for it would not do to raise one's voice in the audience of his Majesty like the _impudent child _had just done. In his young mind, Lelouch understood perfectly what he was to these people; a spectacle, soon to become a cautionary tale to their own children and the subject of gossip over ladies' teas—the happy demise of the Lamperouges and their dastardly supporter the Ashfords, who received their just deserts for attempting to scale the ladder of power like monkeys, propelling _that peasant harlot _to court and His Majesty's attention.

Lelouch despised them, hated them, these worms who dressed like men, who lived by the weather of his father's mood and clung to the lint of his robes and kissed the ground his shadow fell over, but these pitiful creatures were not the subject of his attention, for seated before him on the throne of power was the man who embodied the Empire, whose voice issued commands that felled nations and whose glare melted the hearts of the stoutest men. The boy, but ten years of age, was just on the full receiving end of both, and the fear in him was so great it was all he could do to remain standing, shaking, for he was too frightened to flee.

Yet cold fear had one virtuous effect: the force of his father's rebuke had doused the childish passion which filled his thoughts when he entered the hall, regaining him the use of his greatest and only weapon—his mind. Now that he was able to think once more, his courage and indignation, extinguished by his father's force of presence, was quickly replaced by the strongest instinct known to man since his creation: survival.

Through the ordeal of his mother's death, his sister's injury, and his father's denunciation, Lelouch had gained the most important insight up till that point in his life—that the protected existence he led was an illusion. That the palace, with its crystal fountains and luscious gardens and smiling servants and atriums filled with butterflies and songbirds was no paradise, but a coliseum, where lions and men prowled and plotted to set upon and tear him to pieces, as they had recently done with the two people dearest to him in the world.

There was no help coming, no one left to protect them after the fall of the Ashfords. He was all that remained to look after Nunally and avenge their mother, a lone King without any pieces against a board full of foes, every route cut off, and all the audience waiting his final turn before the inevitable checkmate.

So he made the only move left to him.

Placing one hand behind his back and the other before him, the boy descended until his left knee was touching the floor. His hair, soft, black, and lustrous like her mother's, covered his visage as he bowed low, prostrating himself before the man who held his fate in his hand. "Forgive me, your Majesty, for that unsightly display. I was not myself. I apologize for the embarrassment I've caused you and for intruding upon your court. It shall never happen again."

A murmur arose from the gallery at the boy's reversal in attitude, interjected with a few sneers that soon fell quiet. Lelouch never looked up, keeping his eyes on the floor, the very image of a wayward son humbled into submission by his master and repenting his transgressions. When the hammer that was his father's command to expel, banish, or execute him did not come, he lifted his face and saw his father looking sideways, as though the shameful creature kneeling before him—his own flesh and blood—was not even worthy of his disdain. When the Emperor finally spoke, the cold, quiet words echoed through the Great Hall and into the chest of all who heard them.

"Be gone from my sight."

He rose slowly, _gracefully_, the nobles remarked amongst themselves later that evening in their post dinner gatherings, for a tyke who had just begged like a dog and been spared a fate of life on the streets. Retreating backwards, Lelouch maintained his posture of submission towards his Emperor until he reached the gate to the Great Hall, whereupon he turned and made his exit, the massive double doors closing behind him loudly, shutting away the piercing eyes of the lion and his laughing pack of hyenas.

The sky, which had been a clear expanse of blue and white when he arrived, had transformed during the his trial into a deep overcast. The sound of rolling thunder was audible in the distance as wet spots appearing on the plaza foreshadowed imminent storm. A palace footman came up behind the unescorted prince with a black umbrella, but Lelouch declined the servant's gesture. He began the long walk back to the place he once called home, now but a cage devoid of life and laughter, familiarity and warmth.

As he walked, the drizzle grew into a torrent that beat down upon him until rivulets ran down his face and his garbs clung to his skin. A philosophical bystander might have remarked that Heaven itself was mocking the young prince, reminding him cruelly with every freezing lash of rain his helplessness, his loneliness, his powerlessness to do anything for anyone, including himself. But had they looked closer, looked beneath the dripping wisps of hair that obscured the young boy's face, they would have seen that Lelouch was smiling, for Lelouch had many reasons to be pleased: His enemies, who witnessed his act of subservience today, would dismiss him as finished. They would count him as dead and forget about him, satisfied that the Lamperouges and her allies have been dismembered and buried, never to rise again. But they did not realize that Lelouch had avoided checkmate and remained to fight another day, right in the midst of his unsuspecting foes.

As he crossed through the Temple Plaza, the boom of a close by thunderclap reverberated through his chest and caused his eyes to look towards the Heavens. Blue and purple lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the somber statues of Gods and Goddesses perched atop massive Roman columns. The young prince was enchanted—he watched as a bolt of lightning reached down and struck and Lady Justice's raised sword, showering the plaza with brilliant sparks, burnishing the image into the back of his mind.

Lelouch experienced a violent thrill. It was a sign; his purpose in life had found him. He would destroy those who murdered his mother, who crippled and blinded his sister, who ruined his idyllic world of peace. It may take a lifetime, but he would learn the identities of all those responsible and he would make them pay.

On that day, Lelouch Vi Brittania's childhood came to an end.

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

_

_**Author's Notes: **_Rewritten May 22, 2010, adding divine sign towards the end._  
_


	2. The Lonely Prince

**II. The Lonely Prince**

"_But that I would find a seer,_

_An oracle, a sorceress, keeper of magic,_

_To grant me strength to blind my foes,_

_To deceive their eyes and sow discord,_

_And obey my every utterance unto death,_

_I would give more than Manfred and Faust,_

_Pledge my soul to the devil thrice,_

_All for the Power of the King."_

_Translated from the German opera, "Der Schwarz Prinz."_

_Act I. Lines 337-344._

_Premiered in New London, September 2094.  
_

* * *

In the days following Lelouch's audience with his father the Emperor, events proceeded exactly as he imagined they would; which is to say he and his sister gradually withdrew from the short attention spans of high society and the court. The murder was seldom spoken of, and even then only with the softest whispers and under the strictest of confidences. The initial glee displayed by those who celebrated the Queen's death was quickly tempered by the alarming thought: that if the likes of Marianne—a skilled warrior with a fearsome reputation—was so easily assassinated, what was to prevent their own enemies from plotting their own demise?

Thus, life inside the palace grounds was curiously subdued for a period after the bloody incident. To the outsider this appeared to be an unofficial observance of mourning, but those on the inside knew that people were quiet not out of respect, but fear for their own skins.

As for Lelouch, he spent his time with Nunally, who remained in the palace hospital's intensive care wing, slowly recovering from her wounds in blissful sleep. The young prince watched his sister through the glass enclosure, torn by the sight of wires and tubes stuck into her frail body. He longed for her to open her eyes, but feared that she would remember the incident only as a nightmare, and he would have to break the news to her again. He visited her in the morning, in the afternoon, and sometimes at night after hours for visiting were past, each time staying no more than ten minutes, for it was all he could bear. It broke his heart to see his beloved sister in such a state. He hoped—_prayed—_that one day he could bring back her smile, the most beautiful sight to behold, and which made all seem right with the world.

In the remainder of his time, he planned his mother's funeral.

By conventional wisdom, such a task was too much for any grieving individual to bear alone, much less a bereaved ten year-old boy. But Lelouch knew that he no longer enjoyed the luxury of children's innocence, and he would not let those who cared not a wit for his loved ones take away his right to bury his mother. In the end, forces larger than him were at work, and the young prince had little say over the details of Marianne's funeral. The queen left no will to dictate such matters, nor instructions regarding her children in the event anything should happen to her. Nor was such precaution considered necessary, for who could imagine the sons and daughters of the Emperor of Britannia ever falling to the fate of orphans?

As it were, Lelouch appealed and was granted the option of choosing his mother's headstone and the epitaph to be inscribed, and was even then dismayed to learn from a court appointed official that no reference was to be made to her attained royal status. Marianne would be buried and remembered by posterity as a commoner, as Marianne Lamperouge. While he no longer held reverence for his royal family name—the name Britannia—that it should be stripped from his mother in death was an insult he found unbearable. But there was nothing to be done.

At the Royal Undertaker's den, located just outside of the walls of the palace compounds, Lelouch browsed through the electronic tome containing centuries of patterns and motifs that have graced memorials and tombstones of great persons past. The royal undertaker—a man who had seen to the needs of many grieving parties—stood beside the prince, wondering why the boy, whose height barely brought his eyes to level with the computer terminal, was left alone to make such a decision, and why the officer of court whose job it was to chaperon bereaved families and provide consul and comfort, was absent. As the minutes dragged on, the sympathetic old man pointed to one pattern featuring cherubic angels, a favorite of his past patrons. "How about this one, your highness? I believe it speaks well for the better place Lady Marianne has gone to."

Lelouch considered the idyllic scene for a minute, then shook his head. "It is too peaceful, and belies the manner in which she died."

His small fingers tapped through several more pages on the touch screen before he found what he want: Pictures of blue irises and moss roses, which her mother liked to put in his and Nunnally's room in spring and summer.

"Mother would have liked these."

* * *

The rain that began the night before Marianne's funeral lasted until morning, so that by the time the burial was to take place, the skies were still gray and filled with a lingering drizzle. Lelouch rose early and breakfasted by himself, as he did every morning in the days since the incident. He dressed in his funeral finery and covered himself with a cape like garb to shield himself from the rain. He rode alone in the back of a black sedan, the only other car in the procession besides the hearse that carried his mother's casket. The two vehicles passed through the streets of the Capital with little fanfare, the morning commuters hurrying through the damp weather never looking up as the cars drove by. The nondescript procession arrived at the driveway of a local county cemetery, where several men waited, ready to unload and bear his mother to her final resting place; her family's plot where Lelouch's grandparents rested, a small fenced off area in the far side of the expansive and well trimmed graveyard, noted for the shade provided by an old walnut tree and the removed privacy.

Once the workers hoisted the casket from the hearse, Lelouch followed them as they trudged through the misty cemetery, their boots grinding against the wet gravel path as they made their way to the walnut tree, under which a bespectacled young vicar waited. This was it. There was to be no memorial service at the national cathedral performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, no honor guards of foot and horse to lead her final journey, no riderless horse to signify the deceased's service to her country. No gun salute, half-flag, nor dignity of any kind. Marianne the Flash, the extraordinary woman who dazzled all who saw her in action as a knightmare pilot, who had garnered more admiration and envy than any of her peers, would be buried with the fanfare of an ordinary commoner.

His mother had lied in repose for two days in the Aries Palace. No one came to pay their respects. No one cared that Marianne was dead, that he was all alone. Lelouch sat besides his mother's open casket for two days, waiting, hoping for someone, anyone, to walk through their doors, but no one came, and on the last day, before the men came and took her away in preparation for burial, he bent down and kissed his sleeping mother goodnight for the last time. No one came.

As the vicar began reading the rites Lelouch felt his small fists tighten at his side, the raindrops dripping down his face ignored as a cold, consuming fury burned inside him—a numbing hatred more intense than any he had previously felt; towards his father, his mother's murderers, the aristocratic class, Britannia, a cruel and uncaring world. He hated and hated and hated…

Borrowing a heavy shovel from one of the workers, Lelouch tossed the first pile of dirt, moist nearly to the texture of mud, onto Marianne's casket. Minutes later it was finished. His mother was in the ground. He stayed long after the small burial party dispersed, standing before his mother's headstone as he gazed upon the words he had chosen to remember her by:

"_Marianne Lamperouge. 1979 – 2010. Taken in her prime, survived by loving daughter and son, never forgotten."_

It was as much a reminder to himself as it was a tribute to her. "I will not forget, mother. I will never stop. I'll not rest until everyone who had a hand has breathed their last… I will kill them all."

"Lelouch?"

The boy had been so caught up in pledging his vow of vengeance he failed to notice that someone had intruded upon his solitude. Turning around, he saw a tall young woman dressed for mourning. Through the black veil that shielded her face, Lelouch recognized the shade of brilliant violet which he felt was the prettiest color in the world as a child.

"Sister... Princess Cornelia."

The man behind his elder half sister wore an officer's uniform and followed her with an umbrella. Lelouch recognized him from the scar across his face as one of Cornelia's retainers; a veteran knight renowned for his valor and chivalry. The young woman surveyed the scene before her, focusing on the lone, drenched boy. "Lelouch, why are you here by yourself? Where are the others?"

The deep, dark hate returned. "There are no others. Either they were not told or they did not care. I know not their reasons."

The disbelief on Cornelia's face came as a small surprise to Lelouch—she and Euphemia were closest to him and Nunally out of all his half-siblings, but he did not expect either of them to show up. "Where is Euphemia?"

"She has kept to her room since Queen Marianne passed away. Mother would not let me bring her; she is only nine… Lelouch, are you alright?"

The second princess of the Brittanian royal family sensed that something was terribly amiss with her little brother. No tear streaks, no trembling lips or red-rimmed eyes, only a fearful hardness on his face, the kind of expression no ten year old should have. He was not the clever yet caring child she knew and adored. Death had altered him into something else, someone that ignored their familiarity and kept her from reaching out to him. "Lelouch?"

"… I'm fine." Lelouch's eyes remained on the ground. He saw the mud that had collected around her black pointed boots. "Thank you for being here; mother would be pleased to know that at least you came."

Cornelia fisted her hands before her chest; there was no trace of warmth or feeling in his voice. Her little brother spoke with the voice of a man dead inside. She became fearful for him. "Why? Why do you speak to me like a stranger?"

For a fleeting moment Lelouch felt a pang of guilt, a weak emotion he quickly suppressed—he could allow himself no weaknesses. "… Your Highness, by being here, you are risking your family's reputation by associating with the fallen name Lamperouge. Those who called themselves friends have distanced or disavowed us. Our only true friend, Reuben Ashford, has been forced to leave the country with his clan. There is nothing left here except infamy, ruin, and death."

He knew he was way out of line. His hatred punctuated each syllable with harshness, which in his heart he knew Cornelia did not deserve. But the voice of cold, calculating reason—the only voice he would heed—told him it was for the best; that if he wanted to protect those he cared about he should push them away. Even if the stunned look on his elder sister's face made him loathe himself now, the pain would only be temporary. Cornelia and Euphie would be safe, far away from him and Nunally, who were now leprous pariahs of the Britannian court.

Hands in his pockets, he started down the grim, narrow path that led to the cemetery exit. Lelouch walked passed his sister, never once looking directly at her. "Your condolences are appreciated, but you should go."

Instead, he felt a strong pair of hands grab him by the shoulders and whirl him around, bringing him face to face with an angry Cornelia, who used to scare him terribly when Euphemia would scrape her knee during one of their games of tag... a life time ago. He expected her to slap him and shut his eyes, waiting for the sting to land.

But the blow never came.

The hands that had gripped his thin shoulders painfully gradually loosened. When he opened his eyes, he saw his sister on her knees, ignoring the ruin to her dress from the mud, and found himself wrapped in Cornelia's arms.

And for the first time in what seemed like a long time, Lelouch was at a loss for what to do.

The princess, praised for her courage and potential as a commander in the Brittanian military, laid her cheek against the side of his face, and he felt moisture run down that was too warm to be rain. His own hands stayed by his side, unable to move freely in the midst of her embrace. When her shoulders began to shake, the young prince felt his walls begin to crumble.

"You are not alone, Lelouch."

He was so used to hearing his sister's voice issuing commands—like a bugle sounding men to arms, clear and strong—the hoarsely whispered plea struck him harder than he could have imagined. He fought the emotions that threatened to unravel him. He resisted the temptation to cry into Cornelia's shoulder, slender yet full of strength. He tried to push her away, but she would not let him go. "It's alright, I will protect you; I'll not let one hair on you or Nunally's head be harmed. Do not push us away. Please."

So for the first time since his mother died, Lelouch let himself cry.

* * *

Late that night, after he had visited Nunally at the hospital, he returned home to the Palace Aries and shut himself in the study. Finding the three books he had been reading where he left them—_Manfred, Faust, _and_ the Count of Monte Cristo_—he climbed into the deep leather chair and turned to the back cover of the last tome and withdrew from the sleeve a hidden piece of paper, completely filled with four columns of densely packed names—of Dukes, Earls, members of the peerage and the royal family and many others. Taking a pen from the ink stand, he found Cornelia and Euphemia's name and crossed them out, filled with a sense of guilt and gratitude as he did so; guilt, for having ever suspected the two and gratitude for their friendship when he was prepared to face a hostile world alone.

There remained on the list nearly every powerful figure in Brittania, a list that would take years to investigate, trim, and execute, but as the young boy stayed up late past midnight, drawing inspiration from the successes and failures of his fictional predecessors who sought power for their own purposes, he was reminded of what had transpired that afternoon, and that he was not alone.

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Revised on May 22, 2010. I spent more time portraying Lelouch's dark mentality, formed in the previous chapter, and how Cornelia's appearance saved him from traveling down a dark path.


	3. Farewells

**III. Farewells**

"_Given his exploits, many of which he achieved before the age of twenty-one, it is little wonder that the name Lelouch Vi Brittania often finds itself among such distinguished company as Arthur and Richard. While opinion on the Prince's personal genius enjoys wide consensus in academia within and outside the Empire, the issue of his personality is a subject of much greater debate. Granted, of course, that identifying and defining one's motivation is an inexact science, which many (outside the field of psychology) say is an exercise in futility._

_Some consider him the perfect embodiment of Machiavelli's Prince, the paragon of the ruthless pragmatist; who prizes fear over love as the instrument for rule and leadership. Others point to the contrary, to his chivalry and generosity unto his friends and some times even his enemies; the faith and devotion which he inspired in his followers. The truth may lie somewhere in between; between one boy's struggle with his desire for revenge and the gentle ties which kept him from condemning the world in its entirety to destruction. _

_Without such ties, it was possible given his situation that young Lelouch would have allowed hatred to consume his being. This, coupled with the nature of his quest and the charisma which he wielded, would have seen him develop into a tyrant, or something far, far worse…"_

_Joseph Mirabelli, Dean of History at the University of California, Berkeley. _

_From the BBC documentary, "The Black Prince: Behind the Mask." 2096._

_

* * *

_

Reuben Knowles Ashford stood alone in the middle of a runway, his hazel eyes following the tarmac towards the east, where the first light of dawn was just beginning to break through the gray mist hanging over the field. Behind him, a chartered jet stood by waiting to take him and his family to Japan, where his group had recently begun construction of a boarding school for children of Brittanian expatriates working in that country, so vital to the interests of the Empire. He wore a wool comforter and a brown overcoat against the chill, his breath visible as white wisps of vapor that increasingly resembled the color of his hair. At age sixty-four, the chairman of the Ashford group had always been complimented for his alacrity and energy, but recent developments made him feel keenly the effects of age and the toll which forty years of business and politics had exacted from him.

Reuben Ashford was, in a word, tired.

The media had in past weeks covered in detail the fall of the Ashfords, whose ancestors were granted peerage three generations ago by the Empress for their contributions to the empire's colonial efforts. When Reuben became the head of the family, insiders noted the gamble he made by sponsoring one of his test pilots to become one of the Emperor's queens. Judging now with the benefit of hindsight, the talking heads concurred that he had aimed at political aspirations beyond the reach of the Ashfords. This led to their fall from grace when Marianne Lamperouge died.

For his decision, Reuben was ridiculed by his peers even by members of his own clan; a foolish old man who squandered his ancestor's legacy in order to secure the Ashford's position as the sole developer of the bipedal humanoid robots called knightmare frames, which promised to revolutionize industry and the way in which humans interacted with their environments.

Reuben never sought to defend himself, declining interviews and behests from friends to appeal personally to the Emperor and fight back against his political enemies. The truth was, the old gentleman's inner strength had become depleted by the death of his close friend's daughter, whom he had known since she was a child. His vigor consumed by guilt over the fate of her son and daughter, who, contrary to popular belief, were more than mere pawns to his personal agenda. When the order of censure came he was thrown into darkness, all his inquiries into the fate of the boy and girl turned back without results. He was not even informed of Marianne's funeral until after it had taken place.

He began to lose sleep, lying awake and praying to whatever God would listen for the safety and welfare of the young prince and princess, now without a protector in a ruthless arena that devoured the weak and defenseless. He blamed himself for their loss, the deepened creases on his once humorous face evidence of the penance he served. In a twist of irony, and in spite of the hardship to his family, Reuben found some solace in his exile to Japan: Tension was rising between the island nation which controlled most of the world's known supply of Sakuradite and the Holy Britannian Empire. Some whispered war. Exile to what could be an imminent warzone was weighty punishment indeed, punishment which he deserved.

With the wind blowing loose several wisps of his silver gray hair, he took in the desolate sight around him, knowing that this may well be the last time he set foot on his ancestral homeland, when the silhouette of an approaching vehicle caught his eye. Raising his hand to shield his vision from the sun, he saw that it was a sedan from the palace and immediately feared for the worst. Though he had prepared himself, even welcomed the prospect of incarceration or death in his darkest moments, he prayed that his enemies had the minimal decency to target only him and not be so heartless as to go after his kin who were traveling with him, a retinue which included his only granddaughter, sound asleep inside the cabin.

His heart weighed with despair, he could do nothing but watch as the large vehicle pulled up alongside where the plane was parked, the chauffeur opening the door for its passenger, and his narrow eyes widened in shock when he saw who had come to deliver his sentence.

"Prince Lelouch… Sire."

The young prince stepped out, his somber yet immaculate attire contrasting with the modest appearance of his far older counterpart. "Good morning, Reuben. I heard you were leaving today and have come to see you off."

The old gentleman was at a loss for words, confronted by the boy who lost everyone dear to him as a result of his plans, whom he had not seen since the incident took place. Relief over the safety of his own loved ones was quickly replaced by overwhelming self-reproach, his shoulders sagging deeply as he bowed his head, unable to look into the eyes of the youth in front of him. "I can not begin to ask your forgiveness, your highness, for the loss I have caused you."

Lelouch looked up at the man who had been one of the few frequent visitors at the Aries Palace, often bringing along a girl whom he and Nunally played together with. He was among the handful of celebrants at their birthday gatherings, delighting them once by dressing up as Santa Clause on Christmas eve; the closest thing to a grandfather to two children who had few older relatives to call their own. Lelouch remembered all this, and in spite of his knowledge that part of their families' friendship was borne out of political interests, he could not find in his heart to hate the weary old man before him.

"…You have always been kind to us; I wish you and your family nothing but fair winds and a safe journey." Reuben's eyes followed Lelouch's hand as he extended it towards him. "Let us each do our best hereafter, and if fate is kind we shall meet again in happier times."

Amazed and touched by the boy's gesture, his trembling hands took the small one as Reuben's eyes misted over; his crestfallen heart moved to life once more—the sign of a man renewed by a show of grace and that quality rarely encountered among mere men: majesty. In his state of emotion, the chairman of the Ashford group found himself unable to come up with words adequate to convey his gratitude, but his prince appeared to understand, and waited.

"Grandpa?" A girl with ruffled golden hair rubbed at the sleep in her eyes, the purple knit cap she wore nearly sliding off as she tentatively descended the stairs from the plane, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. When she drew close to the two figures on the tarmac, her blue orbs flashed open upon recognition of who her grandfather had been speaking with. "…Lulu?"

And for once, the boy did not bristle at the affectionate nickname which the older girl had adopted for him after they had become familiar—too familiar, he used to complain to his mother, who to his dismay would only smile and say that it was a cute name. The girl reasoned that Lelouch was too much of a mouthful, skirting the issue every time he tried to debunk her logic, driving him to distraction with her obstinancyt until one day he gave in, accepting the fact that there were some girls in the world that one just could not win against.

"Hello, Milly."

She held her hands in front of her, a difficult look on her face that was so different from the sunlit exuberance he had come to expect—even look forward to—from her. "I… I'm sorry for what happened. How is Nunally?"

"She is healing well. The doctors say they will remove her from artificial sleep soon." A sad smile appeared on the young prince's countenance as both he and his playmate lowered their gazes. "She'll miss you when she learns you are gone."

Glancing over his shoulder, Reuben ascended the stairs to the plane, deciding to let the children say their farewells. On the tarmac, the chauffeur stood a polite distance away as the two waited in silence, which she finally broke. "I've never been to Japan."

"Nor have I, but Schneizel has. He said it is a beautiful place." The picturesque account his older brother gave upon his return from his trip abroad—of pink blossoms that fell like rain from the trees and perfectly shaped snow-capped mountains that peeked through the clouds—had riveted Lelouch and his younger siblings for a memorable afternoon.

"Do you think you can come visit?"

The glimmer in his friend's eyes was so hopeful that Lelouch felt sorry for having to disappoint her. "Not any time soon, I'm afraid."

"Oh."

The low sound of the plane starting to warm up its engines told the two that the time for goodbyes was nearly at an end. After visible effort, Milly produced one of her trademark smiles as she put out her hand. "If your highness manages to become taller than me by the next time we meet, I will call you by your full name… though I doubt that you shall ever surpass me."

Height had always been a contentious issue between them; she was just one year older, but the few inches she had on him allowed her to act much more senior, some thing which chaffed endlessly at the proud boy prince. He did not like to look up at anyone, especially not a girl.

"A lady does not go back on her word, Milly Ashford." He did not plan on letting her off before getting in one last score to help even their ongoing tally, and smiled triumphantly when he saw her reaction after he brushed his lips against the back of her hand. "…And I will hold you to yours when that time comes."

* * *

When the plane carrying his friend had disappeared into the distant skies, Lelouch climbed back into the waiting car. "Home."

"Yes, sire."

At the press of a button, a tinted screen rose, separating the driver and the passenger's area to the rear. From a seat back compartment, Lelouch withdrew a folder containing all the information he could gather on the subject of his next appointment; a young knight who had been a part of the guard detachment the night the assassination took place.

"Jeremiah Gottwald…"

_To be Continued_


	4. In Hardship, Opportunity

**IV. In Hardship, Opportunity**

"_Name: Jeremiah Gottwald._

_Rank: Lieutenant OF-1._

_Birthplace: Polk County, Florida._

_Age: 22_

_Education: Shrewsbury College, made prefect his senior year. Thereafter attended Virginia Military Institute, graduating in the top tenth of his class._

_Career: Dubbed knight upon commission into the army. Posted to Fort Montgomery, Georgia for two months before transferring to the Capital Guards Regiment. Stationed with the troop at Aries Palace, promoted to Lieutenant of the Guards three months later._

_Family: Fourth son of five children, three older brothers and one younger sister. Father Edvard Gottwald and mother Rosaline. Gottwald the elder holds the title margrave, retained from Germanic ancestor who commanded Hessian mercenaries in service of the Crown during Washington's Revolt. Accorded rank equal to earl, with land holdings of 2500 hectares in central Florida. Estate's primary income from citrus orchards grown for consumption and juice. Second brother Joshua a commander (OF-4) in the royal navy, created a baronet for his captaincy of the missile frigate HMS Superior in action around the Strait of Malacca._

_General Evaluation: Demonstrated solid grasp of tactics and low-level command in combat simulations and live exercises. Noted for popularity amongst fellow junior officers and ability to rally peers. _

_Personality Assessment: Vain, ambitious, and fiercely loyal to the Crown. Driven by a need to achieve and strives for individual glory; views service and duty as a matter of personal honor. Holds derisive views towards individuals of colonial origin._

_Recommendation: Knightmare frame pilot in a front line unit._

_Role in Aries Palace Incident: __**CLASSIFIED.**__"_

_Brittanian Army Personnel File #9834172_

_Last Updated: October 9, 2011_

_

* * *

_

Jeremiah paced with restless energy around the base of the grand stairway, where the steward of the palace had asked him to wait. He had not returned here since the assassination of the queen. No trace of the dreadful deed remained; the whole interior of the reception hall—the site of the murder—had been redone. The Palace Aries, which used to be full of sound and activity was now silent—only reasonable, since the queen had died, it was no longer necessary to keep a large entourage to meet her every need, only a few staff to look after the children left behind.

He reminded himself the prince and princess were by no means ill taken care of; he told himself that even without their mother, they enjoyed comforts regular citizens could only dream of. But Jeremiah was not the sort of man who could deceive himself. He could not shake the impression that the palace had taken on the atmosphere of a tomb, and that he was complicit in its transformation. Raising his eyes to the great portraits of ladies and lords who occupied the palace in the past, a chill traveled down his spine from the inexplicable sensation that their inanimate eyes were following him, accusing him, judging him, finding him culpable for the blood of innocents spilled in their domain, on these very steps; his responsibility, his failure.

But there were no specters; no voices around to condemn him except his own.

"Sir Gottwald, his highness will receive you now."

The young knight followed the steward upstairs, echoes of the pair's footsteps from the walls and ceiling enhancing the vast perception of his surroundings and how diminutive his own person was. The mustached gentleman led him as far as the double doors of the second floor study, and then took his leave. A moment later, Jeremiah raised his hand and knocked three times.

"Enter."

Closing the door behind him, he saw the room was dark but for the glowing embers of a fireplace to one side and a cold silver of daylight which slipped in between the thick red curtains and shone upon the occupant behind the desk. Resisting the urge to reach for the collar of his uniform, Jeremiah approached the man, _boy_, who had requested his presence, standing to attention when he was a respectful but communicable distance away. "Lieutenant Jeremiah Gottwald reporting, sire."

From what he knew of the prince from his time as a palace guard, Lelouch appeared not so very different from other boys his age; exceptionally bright, to be sure, but still a child who enjoyed play time and naps and mother's stories. Yet the boy studying him now was not the same as the one he had watched over. Mere weeks had passed and it was as though all traces of the child had vanished, replaced by another who studied him through narrow eyes that seemed to pierce through his façade of a clean conscience—Clearly, the house had taken on characteristics of its new master.

"I would like to begin by congratulating you on your promotion, lieutenant. No doubt you shall make captain sooner than all the rest of your peers."

Jeremiah lowered his head in shame. Even though subsequent investigation had established that he was following orders when he reduced the sentries, the fact that the Queen had died on his watch should have crushed his prospects for advancement forever.

Thus, when the orders for his promotion were issued, he was thrown into confusion; that no one questioned the sanity of such a ridiculous order belied all he believed about the establishment he served—rational, unflinching, a meritocracy that rewarded excellence and punished failure, not the other way around. He desired glory, to be sure, but he wanted to _earn _his glory, and in the days that followed, the silver bar on his shoulder felt less a distinction than a mockery.

And yet, to refuse would have ended his career outright, and the young knight simply did not have the courage to say no.

"…I did not deserve the promotion, sire."

"Gifts aren't given based on deservedness, lieutenant."

"Gifts? But why should I…"

Lelouch silenced him with a raise of his hand. "I have not asked you to come so that I might interrogate you. I have seen your testimony and know you are innocent. What I wish to ask is this: Are you aware of the whereabouts of the man who put in your promotion?"

"Brigadier Finn of the Capital Guards, I believe he transferred to another command shortly after."

"Finn's files have been expunged from the archives. Some say he retired with his family to a distant corner of the empire, perhaps South Africa, perhaps New Zealand. No one knows for sure. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Lelouch rested his elbows against the table, leaning forward with his hands folded beneath his chin, taking in every slip of body language that might reveal what the man before him stood for. "…The man next in the line of inquiry after you has been removed from the picture, implying two things—first, that those behind the assassination have power enough to make the commander of the Capital's regiment disappear; second, all questions into the matter now end with you."

Lelouch watched as the implications sunk in for the young soldier, who in some ways was more naive than he, for though an officer in the Brittanian army, he had not yet witnessed death first hand like Lelouch. A minute later, Jeremiah looked to the boy before him, his voice that of a man lost and without direction.

"If you know all this, why am I here?"

The sound of the phone ringing broke the stifling silence of the room, causing the prince's delicate brows to furrow. Activating the speaker on the handset, he spoke slowly but coolly. "I asked not to be interrupted."

"I beg your pardon, sire, but you wished to be informed the moment the hospital called..."

In less than a minute, Lelouch was moving down the stairs towards the front of the palace where a car waited. Jeremiah followed the boy, not knowing what else to do until Lelouch stopped just before reaching the front door and glanced back over his shoulder.

"Come along, lieutenant. You might as well see for yourself."

Jeremiah obeyed.

During the ride, Jeremiah listened as Lelouch contacted a number of his siblings—the princesses Cornelia and Euphemia, who would arrive shortly after they; prince Schneizel, on a diplomatic mission in Spain, whose valet promised to relay the news to him at the earliest opportunity; and prince Clovis, whose steward made a similar promise but with less conviction. Those were the only ones; of all the royal household, these four were all who the young prince bothered to call, a situation which was consistent with the young officer's recollection of the social isolation the occupants of the Aries Palace were in compared to the rest of the court.

When they stepped out of the vehicle ten minutes later a doctor and nurse were waiting by the front entrance to guide them to princess Nunally's room, which was unnecessary, for Lelouch was five steps ahead of the small party the entire time, having memorized the hospital's layout and urged forth by the knowledge that his sister was finally coming to after weeks of induced sleep.

When the ward door slid open, Jeremiah found the interior to be opposite in character to the study that he had stood in earlier; sunlight and fresh air filled the room from the window which opened to a garden below. On both sides of the bed were crystal bowls of flowers which had a personal touch about them; regal purple and warm tropical reds. On the bed, propped up against a number of white pillows was the princess, and Jeremiah found himself overwhelmed with relief, for she looked as well as could be, with no scars visible to her face or other parts showing. Yet even as he brushed away a tear with the back of his finger, watching the prince embrace his sister in a display of pure joy, he had the small sense that something was off, from the moment they entered the room and when the princess turned towards them…

"Brother, why is the room so dark?"

Silence followed as the doctor and nurse looked at each other apprehensively. Lelouch, stunned, laughed nervously as he touched his dear sister on the cheek. "What are you saying, Nunally? The room is well lit. Do you not see the weather outside? It is but half past noon."

The young girl blinked, slowly turning towards every way but where her brother pointed, and a sinking feeling began to grow in the pit of Jeremiah's stomach as he watched the smile vanish from the young prince's face, replaced by a look of disbelief and horror as his sister reached for him, tentative hands searching. "Brother, it's strange, I can not see you. Where are you?"

"I'm here, Nunally, right in front of you." The boy—and it was the boy now, vulnerable and human and lacking the authority which seemed to wrap around him like a cape earlier—guided the girl's hands to his face, who broke out into a brilliant smile as her fingers recognized the delicate features of her brother. This was the scene the two other princesses arrived to find; the young prince with shoulders shaking as he sat on the edge of the bed, covering her sister's hands with his own and assuring her with bleak smile and clenched teeth that all was well, that he had merely stumbled into a lawn sprinkler on in the way in, which explained why his cheeks were a bit damp.

Jeremiah left the room soon after Cornelia and Euphemia's arrival, barely saluting the elder princess on his way out. He strode down the hallway, turned a corner and threw up on the floor, unable to contain the ill feelings and wretchedness that pooled in his chest. He had a younger sister of his own.

Later, after he had cleaned himself and gone back inside, he listened to the doctor explain the probable cause of blindness as psychological trauma, for which there was no cure but time. He watched as the doctor presented the x-rays of the damage which the fragmenting bullets caused to the princess' legs—forty-seven pieces of lead and metal removed, ranging in size from several grains of sand to the end of a pencil eraser that ensured she would never walk again. In the wake of such devastating news, he marveled at how the young prince held himself, his pain invisible as he inquired in a quiet voice whether there was anything to be done, shaking his head when the doctor suggested with great reluctance amputation and prosthetic limbs.

An hour later, arrangements were made to transfer the princess back to the Aries Palace the following week. Lelouch saw his two half-sisters off, Euphemia showing great reluctance to leave him and determined to stay and watch over Nunally until Cornelia finally coaxed her home with a promise to visit the next day. The siblings hugged goodbye. The young prince did not return immediately upstairs but remained outside long after the palace vehicle had passed out of sight.

"What will you do now, sire?" The question could have referred to many things, but Jeremiah knew the prince would not mistake the meaning in his tone.

"I shall lie low, learn, and accumulate strength. When the time is ripe, I shall exact my revenge."

That the prince would share his intent with him so candidly was unexpected and impressed him deeply. "And what would you ask of me?"

Lelouch extend his hand to him. "Lend me your strength, Sir Gottwald, for at present I have none."

A thrill sparked through Jeremiah's being, an electric feeling that warred against his doubts about the prospects of such a daring enterprise; what could they hope to accomplish against an unseen foe, who could slay a queen and get away with it? What could they do when even Marianne—a cunning warrior who had survived and emerged victorious from bloodshed unimaginable to him—could not defend herself?

Deep down, the young officer recognized that he had been called upon. Every pressure was on him to walk away, to forget this dark chapter of his life, yet he knew that once he started down that path there was no turning back. He was a knight, sworn to be gallant, to uphold justice, to flee cowardice, and protect those who were powerless to protect themselves. Once he compromised—once he broke his code—he would always remember, always be in doubt, questioning what he could have done to make things right until the day he died.

He recognized that this was his chance to redeem himself, and he had a choice to make: To continue living in security and shame, or risk his career and see this affair through to the bitter end.

Bending his knee, Jeremiah knelt before the prince, bowing in reenactment of the oath of loyalty he pledged to the empire's standard, which he now renewed before his new master. "Wield me as you would your sword, my lord."

"I can promise you nothing in fame, riches, or glory."

"No matter; my life is yours to command until that day my debt to you is paid."

Thus Lelouch, whose destiny Fate saw fit to shape with tragedy and adversity unbearable to most, took one step towards accomplishing things great and terrible by obtaining fealty from his first knight.

_To be Continued_


	5. In the Spring of 2016

**V. In the Spring of 2016.**

"_**EU and Empire**__** Face off:**__  
Tensions __escalate __between superpowers __over Gibraltar and North Africa  
_

_Chancellor Schneizel E. Brittania arrived this afternoon at Brussels, where he will meet with the European Executive Commission to discuss recent skirmishes between North African League and Brittanian troops in Area 8, formerly known as Morocco. At the summit, the chancellor is expected to ask the Commission to restrain the NAL, whose forces have received training, equipment, and aid from the EU. In return the EU will almost certainly __repeat__ their __demand for the Empire to __return__ Gibraltar to Spain. EU President Maxine Fournier stated last week at a press conference, "Signatories to the treaty which ceded Gibraltar to a foreign power ceased to exist centuries ago… the return of the partitioned territory is the wish of __the people of __Spain and all Europe."_

_In a move parallel to diplomatic overtures, t__he Ministry of Defence has announced plans to __deploy__ Princess Cornelia's XXI Division to Gibraltar in __response to__ buildup by EU forces north across the border. Chancellor Schneizel is also scheduled to appear before the European Parliament later in the week to appeal for a peaceful resolution to the brewing crisis._

_Gibraltar, along with Area 8, controls access to the Mediterranean Sea and the Asian-European trade route. The territory has been an Imperial subject since 1713, ceded in perpetuity by the Monarch of Spain to Great Britain._

_In June 2011, shortly after the Empire's acquisition of Area 11, formerly known as Japan, The NAL and the EU signed treaties strengthening military and economic ties, a move viewed widely as a deterrent to Brittanian expansion on the African Continent…"_

_March 12, 2016_

_Jeffrey Rush, Associated Press, reporting from Brussels, Belgium."_

_

* * *

_

_The Palace Aries, 7:15 AM_

Lelouch opened his eyes to the sound of the morning call. Rising slowly from his king sized bed, he waited for the rest of his body to shake off the daze of sleep A few minutes later, the press of a button on the command console next to his bed silenced the tiresome but effective ringing of the alarm. Another button turned on the television to a popular news network, and a third parted the thick curtains to his right, bathing the room in the light of a new day. Stepping into his slippers, he headed to the bathroom for his morning routine, automatically unbuttoning and shedding his silk pajamas along the way and depositing the items in the hamper for the maid to pick up and launder later.

The ends of his hair were still damp when he entered the kitchen, where he found ingredients and utensils laid out across the granite counter as per his instructions to the cook the night before. Cooking was one of his hobbies, and his servants sometimes wondered why their prince should take interest in culinary arts when the finest chefs were ready to meet his every whim. Even more surprising was the pace at which he acquired that which others spent years to master, such that his cook—a proud gentleman who had been _Chef de Cuisine_ of a prestigious eatery in the world capital of fine dining—expressed his amazement at the Prince's gift and proclaimed his pupil's creations "fit for a Frenchman's palate."

At half past eight, when all had been washed and put away (for when the prince undertook a learning, he endeavored to learn it to the last detail, which in this case included doing the dishes), Lelouch placed the covered silver platter onto a serving cart along with fruit, pastries and jam, pitchers of fresh juice, and a pot of tea which the kitchen maid had prepared. Taking the cart into the elevator, he pushed the button for the third floor, which held his and his sister's separate living quarters. Knocking twice on her door, he entered to find her sitting up in bed with a brush in hand. "Good morning, brother."

"Good morning, Nunally. I've made you breakfast in bed."

As he bent over to set the wooden tray across her lap, the girl sniffed the aroma in the air and smiled. "Kedgeree?"

"Your favorite."

* * *

_Fort George, 10:52 AM_

"… Thus, Rommel's drive to Egypt was ultimately stopped by Britannian logistical supremacy in the theater, which choked the amount of materiel that reached Axis forces to a trickle, which in turn limited the his ability to sustain his offensive."

"Yet in spite of this, the man nearly drove us out of North Africa with a handful of tanks running on near-empty."

The teacher paused in his measured pacing and turned to his lone pupil, who smiled quietly from his desk. Around them, the walls of the officer's clubroom were filled with framed portraits of officers and their men, pilots and their machines, some of the photos dating to a century ago. Brigadier General Andreas Darlton placed his lecture notes—borrowed from officer school and tailored for one-on-one instruction—on the podium and crossed his arms behind his back. "True. Nevertheless, the lesson remains valid: Even the best, most charismatic commander cannot overcome an enemy who enjoys absolute superiority in materiel and manpower. That was true then and remains true today; whether the weapons of war be tanks, aircraft or knightmares, Britannia prevails because of her ability to field more firepower than anyone can resist... and then some."

"I understand, sir."

"Today's lesson is over. On Thursday I'll be expecting your treatise on Clausewitz."

Rising from his seat, Lelouch exchanged a crisp salute with the senior officer, after which the two visibly relaxed, released from the rigid formalities which complicated their respective positions of authority. "How is my sister? I haven't seen her lately."

The elder man chuckled as he approached the prince, who had been putting away his notes. "Her highness has been swamped by meetings and summons to appear before Army high command, what with the going-ons in Morocco, and is nearly at her wit's end."

"Poor sister. I can't imagine it being easy for you either, as her senior adjutant."

The two made their way outdoors to the drilling grounds, where a company of soldiers in blue-gray fatigues jogged by to spirited cadence. The officer with a scarred face heaved a sigh as he accompanied Lelouch to the front of the base. "I fare better than most. Even in times like these the Princess demands that our lessons continue, which allows me to get out for some air once in a while, though as a result Guildford gets tasked with the lion's share of divisional desk work. Hard luck for the lad."

"I'll have someone bring over a bottle of blue label scotch later."

"I think he'd appreciate that."

* * *

_Back at the Palace Aries, 11:03 AM _

"It has been many years, Master Chandler."

"Your highness, but what a pleasant surprise! I was not told that you would visit today."

The old gentleman's eyes squinted up towards the wearied countenance of his former pupil's face. Her immaculate dress uniform marred by a few uncharacteristic dips and creases, Lieutenant General Cornelia pinched the bridge between her brows as she closed her eyes for a moment's rest. "I had not planned it, but I gave myself a break from my duties to come see my sisters, before the next briefing drives me mad."

The tutor chuckled quietly as he turned towards the closed door to the palace's library. "The princesses are good students; they encourage each other to learn and are a pleasure to teach together… though in spite of my efforts I can not raise Euphemia's enthusiasm for physics at all."

Cornelia chuckled. "It appears we share that trait as siblings."

"Ah yes, I do recall your struggles with the subject, though you did conquer it at the end."

"All thanks to your tutelage." Cornelia glanced at the wooden clock hanging on the wall. "I must be back by twelve. Will they be much longer?"

The tutor withdrew a silver pocket watch from inside his brown suit. "Another ten minutes or so left on their exams. I'm sure they'll be pleased to lunch with you, though I'm afraid Prince Lelouch has prior engagements and won't return till late afternoon."

"Pity, I should have liked to hear about his progress with Darlton. How are his regular studies coming along?"

"The Prince has basically completed the public curriculum, including a fluent grasp of German and French, so I took the liberty of starting him on a range of introductory university courses. And yet…"

"Yes?"

"His attitude towards education is somewhat… aloof. In spite of his remarkable capacity for learning, one gets the sense that he never fully applies himself, but only devotes enough effort to achieve mere excellence rather than the perfection he is capable of." The old man folded his hands behind his back as he bowed in reflection. "I know not what other pursuits he reserves his energy and focus for, but I imagine they must be important to the goal he has in mind."

* * *

_B. Montgomery Stadium, Empire War College, 3:47 PM._

In the service tunnel fifteen feet underground, the volume generated by one hundred eleven thousand spectators felt like distant thunder as Lelouch proceeded down the corridor wearing a headset with oversized earmuffs. "Situation update, Jeremiah?"

"Thirteen minutes eleven seconds left. Navy has ball on our forty-five, third and long."

"Score?"

"37-17 Midshipmen's lead. It's hopeless, sire."

"We shall see. In forty seconds have the coach call timeout."

"But it's our final one."

"Then use it, and tell him that I will take over as soon as timeout goes into effect."

"Yes, my lord."

A minute later, Lelouch stepped out of the elevator and into the box for the offensive coordinator of the Army football team. Relieving the hapless man of his seat and the bird's eye view it offered, the young man sat down and looked towards the luxury boxes to his right, where his gaze met that of a number of the Empire War College's distinguished alumni, whose shoulder board stars summed up easily past double digits.

When his nod was acknowledged and returned by the grave-faced gentlemen—their humor spoiled on this pleasant afternoon by the fact that their service rivals were making mincemeat of their alma mater's representatives—Lelouch smiled and dialed his headset to the channel connecting him to the play maker on the field. "Opponent expects Cover Two to halt pass. Go Cover One and blitz seven."

Far away down by the field, a player looked up from the sidelines as a gruff reply came over the headset. "Who the devil's this? Where's Walsh?"

"Walsh has been detained, I'm in charge now. Do as I say if you want to win."

Lelouch's eyes narrowed in annoyance when a string of profanities preceded the player's reply. "You're the mystery voice; the one who only shows on big games and pinches, I can't bloody believe it."

"Doesn't matter what you believe; we've a match to win and little time to do it in. Inform the quarterback to tune in for instructions after we get the ball back. Now get going."

"… Roger that."

Thirty minutes later, after a breathless span of highlight reel plays and impossible reversals, an ocean of red and gold spilled over the stands and rushed the field in wild celebration, raising their equally ecstatic and befuddled team to the air. By that time, the young man who orchestrated the Redcoats' historic comeback against their blue and white rivals had already left the building, anonymous and away from the limelight, just as he had intended.

While the stadium was still rumbling in the throes of excitement, Jeremiah joined his master inside the underground VIP garage, where Lelouch was waiting by the car. "So, were the generals pleased?"

"They bade me pass on their appreciation for your services, which they shall certainly remember when any decision concerning your highness comes across their table."

Lelouch folded his hands beneath his chin. "Excellent, and our take?"

It was the sort of math every Brittanian soldier enjoyed doing. "3:1 pre-game odds were raised to 9:1 by the end of the third quarter, at which point we invested 5000 pounds, to a neat gain of forty grand."

"Decent for half an hour's work, I suppose."

"Have we plans for the rest of the day?"

"No, you are dismissed. Take three thousand and treat yourself and those fellow officers you mentioned. What were their names?"

"Villeta and Kewell, sire. Perhaps you should come along and meet them yourself?"

"I will, when the time is right. Tonight, however, I'm to see _Turandot_ with Clovis and two of his lady friends."

The indifference in Lelouch's response led Jeremiah to wonder. "Would these lady friends happen to be… unattractive?"

"Fair enough by my brother's standards; in any case, their father is the Keeper of the Privy Purse, which necessitates that I regard them as Venus and Aphrodite even if they should turn out to be mules."

And Jeremiah understood why his prince—no admirer of high society and its rituals and trappings—was attending opera. "I'm sure you shall impress them with your company, sire."

* * *

_New London Opera House, 9:47 PM._

Lelouch was in a good mood; the day had been splendidly productive in terms of financial gain, obtaining favor, and strengthening connections direct and indirect with persons of high office. Such was his satisfaction that he allowed himself to enjoy the evening's performance rather than merely feign interest for the benefit of his companions. It helped matters that the romantic epic in three acts, which followed a dispossessed yet resourceful prince on a determined quest to win the hand of a cruel and beautiful princess, was a tale that spoke volumes beyond the obvious to his own heart.

At the conclusion of the world famous aria by the protagonist, his evening's date—a simple and pretty thing five years his senior—offered him her over-perfumed handkerchief, which he accepted gratefully as he sought to reign in the soaring emotions in his chest evoked by the powerful song. Highly amused by his younger brother's reaction, Clovis leaned close to his sibling in the midst of applause. "I never knew you were such a sentimental creature, Lelouch."

Lelouch smiled as he finished drying his eyes. "I sensed a kindred spirit."

_None shall sleep! None shall sleep!  
Even you, O Princess!  
in your cold room  
are watching the stars which  
tremble with love and hope!  
But my secret lies hidden within me,  
no one shall discover my name!  
Oh no, I will reveal it only on your lips,  
when daylight shines forth  
and my kiss shall break  
the silence which makes you mine  
Vanish, oh night!_

_Set, stars! Set, Stars!  
At daybreak I shall win!  
I shall win! I shall win!_

_Turandot, Act 3, Scene 1: "Nessun dorma" by Calaf, the unknown prince._

**To be Continued**

**

* * *

**

Author's Notes: Thank you for your patience, dear readers. This chapter, a day in the life of Lelouch, age 16, took a long time to construct due to the number of scenes and characters involved. Though the news flash in the prologue is foreboding, the chapter's mood is generally lighter, beginning with fan service in the form of Lelouch in the shower, then ending on a more ambitious note. Cultural references, such as the English spelling of defence and my poor attempt to give Darlton an accent, were included in order to add a touch of British flavor to the story.

An irony which I found especially amusing was that in the anime, Darlton was geassed and then blown to smithereens by Lelouch in the final episodes; here, he is the man whom Cornelia entrusts with her brother's military upbringing; exploring the possibilities of these sidecharacters and filling in the everyday details of the world of Geass is one of the most enjoyable parts of writing this story.


	6. The Stage is Set

**VI. The Stage is Set**

"_Division Head Quarters, Gibraltar._

_April 11, 2016_

_Dearest Euphie,_

_It has been a week since I arrived and I have not had an opportunity to sit down and write until now. Email and calls are well and good, but there's still nothing quite like a letter to convey all one's thoughts to a loved one. I know; I look forward to the days when mail from home arrives for the soldiers._

_Despite what they say on the news things are rather settled here; the Spanish keep their distance from our lines, which grow stronger day by day. I hope we shall never have to put them to the test, but if that day comes, we will be ready. You must not worry too much; if any man in the __world__ can talk __angry __politicians out of a war, it would be your brother Schneizel. He could run for office in Europe and win, if only because of the female vote. Thank goodness that's not how we choose our leaders._

_Darlton informs me that Lelouch has been made a colonel and given a regiment__ to command.__ His pleasure with his pupil__'s progress__ is obvious to all who come across him. I considered transferring him to Lelouch so he could __assist__ him__, but cannot spare him at this critical juncture. In any case, Darlton said that I should "let the lad earn his __own __spurs."_

_I understand your mixed feelings over Lelouch's choice, but you must realize that more than __anyone__ he __desires__ to prove himself, and has pursued and prepared himself for __this __opportunity ever since that day. Be proud of him, Euphie, and become __part of __his strength__. You friendship and comfort has sustained him throughout the years and I know he will want you to be there for him in the future__._

_Nevertheless, if Schneizel and I do our jobs, he should never have to join me on the field. So fear not, I shall give my best so as to not deprive you of the brother whom you hold so affectionately, so much that I am made quite jealous._

_Give my love to mother and kiss Nunally for me. Do refrain from kissing Lelouch if you can; at fifteen, I trust you are __old__ enough to know what proper __behavior __for a lady__ is__._

_Y__our devoted sister, Cornelia L. Brittania__"_

_

* * *

_

There are dozens of gentlemen's clubs that catered to the broad spectrum of well-to-do residents in Britannia's capital and its metropolitan region. Each club served a particular demographic segment. Each possessed their singular quirks and rituals of entry. Some only accepted members of the armed services, others only accepted those of certain prestigious universities, still others discriminated based on profession, travel experience, even hair and eye color. All accepted only men. Upon admission, members gained access to the facilities and comforts offered by these establishments, which invariably included casual to formal dining, a bar well kept with liquid refreshments, luxuriously furnished sitting rooms, game rooms, and libraries in which to relax and social with their colleagues, chat about the latest current events, and share stories that would otherwise be too impolite to carry on amidst members of the fairer sex. Conducting business on club premises was considered contrary to the spirit of leisure and strictly forbidden.

Amongst these velvet and mahogany sanctuaries, the Foxhound Club, formed in 1817 by an Earl with a fondness for the hunt was one of the oldest and most prestigious, restricting membership to those of the peerage and royal bloodline; it was to the Foxhound Club that Lelouch belonged. His six thousand pound per annum fee was paid for by the Privy Purse, and with Clovis the master socialite as his sponsor he was voted in with little difficulty. On this particular night he arrived without the company of his brother—who was preoccupied with his governorship in the Far East—handed his evening coat to the doorman and was promptly received by the master of the establishment. "Good evening, my lord."

"Good evening, Robert. I'll be using one of the terminals today."

"Of course, will you be dining?"

"Cream tea will do."

"I'll have it sent up right away." The tuxedoed attendant bowed and left to process the order.

As the prince passed through the smoking room adorned with Persian tapestries, exotic ferns, and elegant portraits, the son of a viscount who was a casual acquaintance saluted him in greeting, subtly congratulating him on his sudden promotion, which Lelouch knew had generated a fair stir amongst those who kept up with such things. He nodded in return, soon reaching the staircase that took him to the second floor, where a number of small private rooms were situated, digital displays on the doors indicating availability or occupancy. Entering a free room, Lelouch sat down at the black leather chair and turned on the monitor, and was soon logged on to the server of a particular website. A window opened to a chess match in progress, at which point a page boy arrived with a tray of tea, biscuits, and various condiments. His eyes lingered on the user roster until one with the acronym S.E.B came online. Several moments later, a second window appeared with a video feed of his opponent, a strikingly handsome man with golden locks and regal white robes.

"Hello, brother. You're later than usual."

Schneizel Edmund Brittania, Lord High Chancellor of the Holy Brittanian Empire, 18th Duke of Beaufort. Though nominally third in the line of succession, Schneizel's outstanding record as a statesman and popularity as a public figure elevated him to share the position of heir presumptive with his eldest brother, Odysseus, the crown prince. To Lelouch, he was a model to aspire towards, an occasional but significant mentor, and a measuring stick for his own progress. While not a clear cut ally like Cornelia—who acted as their guardian after his mother passed away—Schneizel was not unhelpful, and always courteous, the same of which could not be said of most of his half-brothers and sisters, practically strangers. "Forgive me, Lelouch. I was detained by a meeting; Signor Materazzi is an eloquent man, but takes time to make his points."

Lelouch raised his teacup and surveyed the board, refreshing his memory of where they left off several days ago. "Perhaps you should take Clovis next time and let him do the negotiating. He and the Italian minister share a preference for verbiage and may speed along the process."

"Indeed, Clovis has a gift with words which I am unable to match." The chancellor chuckled in reply. "My turn?"

"Whenever you're ready."

The siblings twelve years apart do not play a silent game. They discussed economics, international relations, political science, social trends, relations between the core and the periphery of the empire and the welfare of its subjects. It is a dialogue between two great minds, and for Lelouch, lessons better than what books alone could offer. Their game does not suffer any distraction; twenty turns later, the elder sibling had gained a slight upper hand. "I understand you've chosen soldiering over civil service. You should make a fine officer, though I harbored hopes that you might join me and lend me your strengths as a statesman."

Lelouch pulled his knight back to deter an attack by Schneizel's bishop. "I may enter politics later on if conditions are favorable, though I can't imagine what I could offer that may be of assistance to you."

"Such humility; young men should be ambitious." Two turns later Schneizel took Lelouch's knight, and the tenuous balance began to tip. "Do you ever wonder why father divests so many responsibilities to us, his children?"

"Is it not obvious? There are so many of us, what better way to determine a successor than by pitting us against one another to separate the chaff? He dangles the promise of the throne before the families like herring, thus ensuring that we remain fractious and obligated to him."

"True, but it is not always the case that we are constantly at each other's throats; some of us even get along quite well. No, there is more to it."

"Pray tell."

"In his prime, father did more than any sovereign before him to enrich and expand the empire. He created a legend for himself, some credit him with the power of foresight. He never lost a battle except to win the war. All his arguable failures always resulted in greater victory later on …" The white rook captured the remaining black bishop, and Lelouch's situation became dire.

"But the world has changed; as we grow, there are fewer nations to divide and conquer. Those that remain are strong. Europe and Asia have formed regional blocs that rival ours. The knightmares which helped us conquer Japan have been widely copied and no longer offer us a decisive advantage. The age of swift empire building is past. It is at this moment in history, at the zenith of his legacy that he chose to retreat and delegate powers to us."

"…Because he wishes to preserve his myth of invincibility?"

From across the Atlantic Ocean, Schneizel smiled. "For two millennia God used His apostles to spread the word. His representatives rise and fall, but His glory is never diminished; His detachment from earthly affairs guarantees belief in his omniscience, that all things are according to His plan."

Silence lulled as Lelouch surveyed the board, Schneizel's pieces advanced well across the center line into his territory. "Interesting theory."

"Isn't it?"

"But even if it should turn out that he has foreseen all, it makes no difference; we each have our agendas and we push on."

Lelouch made his move, springing the trap that he had planned from twelve moves prior. In the next five turns, the white prince's overwhelming advantage was trimmed to a negligible margin, and the game became a stalemate once more. Schneizel leaned back in his chair and sighed; when they first began playing, matches rarely lasted more than fifteen minutes—the present match had gone on for more than two hours. "Draw?"

"Accepted."

Schneizel rose from his chair. "Your skill increases every time we meet."

"And yet I remain without a single victory." Lelouch reached his arms above his head and stretched, his record against his brother improving to 0-39-9 since he started counting four years ago.

"In most cases, not losing is victory in itself."

"I know." It was why he accepted the draws every time he could force Schneizel—by far the superior player—to offer them.

* * *

Lelouch was not successful in everything he tried. For example, he could not for the life of him do forty push ups, falling just short of the minimum set by the army's physical fitness test. He fared better in the two mile run, coming in at fifteen minutes, enough for a C- ranking. Three attempts to march twelve miles with a 50 lb rucksack failed miserably, the last time ending in him being carried away on a stretcher. Afterwards, Jeremiah carefully reduced his master's PT regime, knowing all along that conditioning could only go so far to fortify what was a weak constitution to begin with. He did so in spite of the prince's many dirty looks and protests, but eventually Lelouch came to accept that, while not exactly a weakling, he was not going to be exacting revenge from anyone if he had to rely on his own physical strength. He had brains in abundance, but others would have to provide the muscle.

Today's training was swimming—a form of exercise that had the advantage of building stamina without rendering him completely spent by the time he finished. He had the full-sized indoor pool at the Aries Palace to himself, and had just touched the side for his tenth lap when a lithe figure in a blue swimsuit slipped into the lane next to him, a shock of pink peeking out from under the silver swim cap. "You're working hard, Lulu."

Lelouch lifted his goggles and turned towards his half sister. "Finished for the day already?"

"Yes, and I thought I'd join you and Nunally for dinner. Meals at home have become so quiet now that sister's gone." Euphemia adjusted the strap on her shoulder as she smiled. "How about a race?"

"When I'm already pooped from ten laps? When did you get to be so sneaky?"

The princess stuck out her tongue. "I'll give you a head start if that's what you need."

"That won't be necessary."

He ended up losing by two arm's length, but tried not to let his mind dwell on it. Later, the siblings sat together in the hot pool as Lelouch relaxed his sore muscles. Euphemia lowered herself deep into the steaming pool and sighed pleasantly. "We should do this more often; the four of us, once sister comes home."

"It may be a while before that happens."

Long locks freed from the confines of her cap, Euphemia regarded her brother with a concerned look. "You don't think it will come to the worst, will it?"

"The Europeans won't go to war—it's no good for them or us—but it is to their advantage to undermine our position by abetting their allies in North Africa."

"… Will you go if you had the chance?"

Lelouch opened his eyes and looked down at his distorted reflection on the shimmering surface. He made no reply. The sharp click of boots on tiles turned the teenagers' attentions towards the direction of the approaching footsteps. A group of three army officers—two male, one female—headed by Jeremiah came up to the edge of the pool, where he saluted his prince and commanding officer with a broad smile on his face. Lelouch rose and reached for a towel. "What news, Jeremiah?"

"The Empire has declared war on the North African League. As we speak, XIV and XV divisions under Prince Geoffrey and Alfred are preparing to move to Area 8. We have also been handed mobilization orders."

"Excellent. How soon before…"

"A plane is ready to take us to meet the regiment; we can leave as early as 0700 hour tomorrow." Jeremiah could hardly contain the excitement in his voice. "It is what we have been waiting for, Sire."

_To be Continued _

_

* * *

_

Author's Notes: Thanks for your patience, especially to those who gave me feedback. This chapter roughly marks the conclusion of the first arc, after which the story will shift from the Capital in Brittania to elsewhere, and characters like Villeta and Kewell will come into play; I have much in store for the two. Until next time.


	7. The Black Knights

**VII.** **The Black Knights**

""_Gaz, I'm flat out of polish, spot me some will ye'?"_

_I kicked the tin across to the rascal sitting on the opposite bunk. "You better hurry; the Leftenant wants to see his face shining on our boots before the inspection starts."_

"_Shame it ain't much of a face to look at."_

"_Hear, hear." _

_The squad shared a laugh before returning to the task at hand of making ourselves presentable. Peters, the second support gunner, piped in. "So is it true our new colonel is only seventeen?"_

"_I hear he's fourteen, scary sharp, finished Cambridge and the Academy already."_

"_Bollocks, he'd have to have started when he was all of eight years old."_

"_That's why I said he's sharp, or were you not listening you muppet?"_

"_Put a lid on it, Yevy. It's all talk anyways."_

_Merc, the squad sharpshooter and the eldest amongst us at 24, blew some lint off his beret before putting in his two pence. "No use quibbling over what he's like; we'll know soon enough. I just hope he's not a bloody knightmare jock like those blue bloods tend to be." _

"_Amen to that. As if birth as anything to do with one's ability to pilot a steed."_

"_But why's a prince leading a regiment, 'specially a new one like ours? Too many royal tykes __want__ to play soldier and not enough divisional commands to go around?"_

"_Might have something to do with our prince's low pecking order in the courts."_

"_How's that?"_

"_You recall, couple years ago Queen Marianne—God rest her soul—was assassinated. She left a son and a daughter, who as you might imagine didn't __have__ the time of day from anyone up there. That son is our new commander."_

"_M__ust've been rough on the lad."_

_I was about to speak when the Sergeant walked in. "Alright __ladies__, finish putting on your makeup__.__N__ew commander's here. We're on the field in five, chop chop."_

"_Aye, sir.""_

_Colour Sergeant Allan "Gaz" McCready, Baker Company, 1st armored cavalry troop, 382nd Ashfordshire Regiment; from "The Mighty 382nd: Memoirs of a Soldier"; Random House, 2058._

_

* * *

_

The County of Ashfordshire was located 420 kilometers off the Western seaboard and five hour's north of Pendragon by car. As of 2016, with an estimated population of 262,000, Ashfordshire counted as one of the smaller counties within British North America. The ancestral home of the family after which it took its name, the county fell into depression following the family's loss of noble status and expulsion from the mainland. Originally a leading center of knightmare frame R&D and manufacture, Ashfordshire lost its share of defense contracts following the collapse of its largest employer, so that in the six years after Reuben Ashford's disgrace the county's vital statistics—including per capita income, GDP, and population—plummeted across the board. Partially as a result, when Army High Command decided to form and base a new unit in the county two years ago, more than 18,000 applied for the 4300 or so military and civilian positions available; like a typical small town in war time, everyone seemed to know at least one person who had a husband or child serving in the regiment.

Accompanied by a small entourage, Lelouch walked towards the drilling grounds and took in the surroundings—sheet metal roofs and gray prefab housing—a far humbler setup compared to the beautiful fort which housed his eldest sister's elite division. He wore over his dashing blue and white dress uniform a raven cape like that of cavalry officers of old, which helped conceal his slight build and lend him presence. "Tell me a bit about the men, major."

"A sorry lot: None of noble background, a few from local squires and gentlemen's families, but that's all." The straight-faced young man named Kewell appeared apologetic as he continued. "I'm afraid we'll be working with sons of engineers, mechanics, and former assembly line-workers."

Lelouch smiled, much to the confusion of his subordinate. "Excellent. They're exactly what we need."

Five minutes later, the prince was seated on a chair atop a makeshift review stand, his three senior officers to his right as he surveyed the rows of men in khaki. He saw doubt on their faces but also sensed the type of hunger for upward mobility found in the best of the working class. It was no coincidence that Lelouch ended up commander for the 382nd, created from a constituency with deep ties to his own family. He calculated that the decline endured by Ashfordshire would create the sort of environment which would breed men after his own heart; eager to succeed and prove themselves after others had written them off.

Finally, after the regimental liaison finished introductions, it was his turn to address the troops. Lelouch rose and strode to where the microphone stood, four thousand men snapping to attention as one.

"At ease."

A moment later he began. "Gentlemen, I have heard some commentators say that this war against the North African League comes at a bad time, what with the rebels in Areas Eleven and Six and the Europeans watching from the fence. This is complete and utter rubbish. A true Britannian loves a good fight at any time. Historically, the Britannian's love for battle has surpassed his fondness for tea, sports, even gardening. We love it, therefore we practice and hone it, and that's why we've not lost a war in two centuries."

He was off to a good start; when the subdued but appreciative chuckle from the regiment settled, he continued. "You are here today for three reasons. First, because you wish to provide for and protect your loved ones. Second, you are here for your pride, and the dignity which comes with that uniform you wear. Third, you are here because you are men and all real men like to fight. All of you grew up admiring the superheroes, the strongest boxers, the major league athletes, the Premier League champions. Britannia loves a winner. Britannia despise losers and cowards. The very idea of defeat is distasteful to that which makes us Britannians."

He paused and looked over the crowd, sensing the growing excitement in the air and his own pulse. "Not all of you shall perish," he said quietly. "It is my intention to bring every one of you back, but some among us may not see the end of this campaign. Death, however, must not be feared. The first time you witness death your mind will go blank with fear—any man who claims otherwise is a liar. But you will remember who you are, and your finger will move to the trigger and do its work, for a true soldier will never let his fear overcome his honor, his self esteem, and his loyalty to his brothers in arms."

"We are a team—we live, sleep, eat, and fight as a team. Every man in this regiment has a crucial role; don't ever think that yours is insignificant. Every man has a job and he must do it. None are expendable. Suppose a maintenance crew member decided he didn't fancy the enemy shooting at him constantly and decided to duck in a ditch somewhere. The coward may say, "Bugger it, they shan't miss me, just another repair man." But what if every man thought that way? Where in Dante's inferno would we be now? What would our homes, our history, our empire be like? No, we do not think that way! Every unit, every section, is vital to the success of this regiment. Without infantry we cannot seize and hold ground. Without engineers we cannot clear defenses and advance. Every last man in this regiment has a job to do, even the one who digs our latrines so we don't fall to poor hygiene and disease. This rhetoric about aces and heroes winning wars by their own efforts is more worthless than dung. The retarded inbreeding louts who write that sort of stuff for the tabloid press do not know any more about soldiering than they know about hosting tea parties!"

The men roared in approval and glee; their boy commander, with his colorful language and ability to empathize, exceeded their wildest expectations. Lelouch maintained a stern expression, and motioned for quiet a moment later. "I will now unveil our insignia." On the prince's signal, a coiled fabric rose slowly into position on one of two silver poles behind the platform. When it reached the height of the blue imperial standard on the neighboring pole, the flag unfurled to reveal the silhouette of a mounted medieval knight on top of a shield divided into four parts in black and silver, a banner with a line of Old English wrapped around the bottom.

"…For centuries, a black knight was one who concealed or carried no standard. Roaming the battlefield in anonymity, these master fighters defied the conventions of their time and surprised both allies and foes with their exploits; wild cards who could read and turn the tide of battle." He paused a moment to let the image sink in on the men, took a deep breath and then continued. "The line reads thus, 'We Determine the Outcome;' I have selected this as our motto because I foresee that in this present conflict and future ones, we shall be the decisive factor, the king makers who will seize victory for our side. What say you, black knights? Do you like your new standard?"

His voice began low and rose in energy throughout. By the time he bit off the last syllable, the thunderous noise generated by thousands of electrified soldiers drowned out his own thoughts, the cheering and stomping lasting longer than a minute. "In a week the regiment shall move by train to the Mojave Desert, where we shall acclimate ourselves in preparation for deployment to the deserts of North Africa. Things will get busy from now on, gentlemen; prepare yourselves. That is all."

After the regiment was dismissed, Lelouch descended the review stand and started towards the building which housed the regimental head quarters. "Major Villeta?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"I apologize for my failure to use gender-inclusive diction in my speech; I did not mean to offend you, the only female member of the regiment."

Villeta smiled. "None taken, sire."

"Kewell?"

"Milord."

"Did you find any part of my address objectionable?"

"No, sire."

"Good, because it was what the men needed to hear." He turned to face the three. "This regiment shall be a meritocracy, gentlemen—our shortage of nobles means we will be promoting from the ranks. Let the men know this. Train them hard and treat them fair so that we may earn their respect, just as I hope to earn yours."

"Aye, Sir!"

* * *

Lelouch had been poring over the regiment's Table of Organization and Equipment when he heard the knock on the door of his office. "Enter."

Jeremiah marched in, a troubled look on his face. "Sire, we have a problem."

"Go on."

"I was going through the motor pool, armories, and hangars like you instructed. The TOE states that our regiment should be equipped with 96 knightmare frames; I counted three times and only found 76."

A severe frown appeared on the prince's face. "This is rather different from what the Generals promised me."

"It gets worse, sire. Only half of the 76 are Sutherlands, the rest are older Glasgows."

"I presume you've already notified High Command of this?"

"I have. As I was told, the unexpected rate of KMF attrition due to the ongoing rebellions has created a shortage, and we are a good ways from the top of the waiting list. Beg pardon, sire, but the whole bloody mess stinks of politics."

Lelouch rose from his seat and looked through the blinds at the sun setting outside. "I was wondering why the enemies of the Lamperouge family were silent all this time; this bears the stamp of their work."

"I also found some items that weren't listed on the TOE; likely an attempt at making up our shortfall."

"What items are we talking about, Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Perhaps it'd be best if you saw them for yourself."

Ten minutes later, the two stood inside a motor pool, where a row of armored vehicles was parked. "… Tanks."

"Yes sir, tanks, first appeared on the battlefield a hundred years ago—a relic of a bygone era of warfare. Look at them; they move on treads, like tractors, for Heaven's sake." Jeremiah tapped his knuckle against the hull armor of one of the tanks, recalling what he learned during school,

"…When these Challenger III Longbows debuted, they were the most powerful fighting vehicles on the planet, combining artillery and main battle tank into one platform, armed with a 140mm rail gun firing up to 12 rounds per minute out to 100 kilometers. They only built a handful before we invaded Area Eleven, and after that… well, no one was really interested in tanks after that. Production stopped and the finished pieces were placed into storage."

Lelouch climbed up the side of the tank, inspecting the exterior and interior of the massive steel beast which bristled with firepower—on top of its main turret was an automated weapons station which housed a grenade launcher and mini gun for defense against infantry, helicopters, and incoming missiles. Lelouch moved to the front and examined the barrel of the massive gun that extended over seven meters. "Jeremiah, wouldn't you agree that one shot from this would disintegrate any knightmare?"

"Of course, sire. But only if the enemy pilot agrees to stand still; I venture there aren't many who will be as cooperative as that."

Lelouch hopped down from the tank. "How many of these Longbows do we have?"

"24. The crews have been training with them as well."

"We'll take them. If nothing else we can use them as tractors for towing and recovering knightmares." The prince smiled. "Any weapon that operates on the basic principle of a big powerful gun must be of some worth."

_To be Continued _

_

* * *

_

Author's Notes: And we depart slightly from Code Geass and venture a into the realm of Tom Clancy, whom this author is an avid reader of; indulge me. Lelouch's speech was loosely based on Patton's, minus the extended strings of profanity. One of the ironies of this chapter was Lulu's choice of the Black Knight as the unit's symbol; online research turns up little, but what descriptions I could obtain appeared to fit perfectly with Lulu's personality and vision. Well then, until next time.


	8. Opening Rounds

**Chapter 8: Opening Rounds**

**VIII.** **Opening Rounds**

"_382nd Regiment "Black Knights" Area 8 Head Quarters, Casablanca._

_May 24, 2016_

_Dearest Nunally,_

_I landed in Morocco yesterday with the regiment. I wish we could have been given more time to prepare, but the public grows restless with the lack of progress and the Court has taken notice, and so we're here. Nonetheless I believe we are ready; our time in Nevada was put to good use training and outfitting for the Saharan desert. It is a fascinating land, patches of lush green oases with the people and cities, separated by oceans of sand that shimmer like waves and stretch as far as the eye can see. It is yet spring here, but the temperature is already hotter than it has ever been at home, and much drier. In the coming days water shall be as important to us as the fuel cells which drive our knightmares. When it comes time for to move forth showers will become a tightly rationed commodity, which makes me glad that you won't be here to smell us! That does not mean I do not miss you; leaving your side was the hardest part of all this, but I shall write frequently and keep my promise to you and come home by Christmas._

_Tell Euphie that I shall write her as well. I was most pleasantly surprised two days ago when you both showed up in Ashfordshire; undoubtedly, the presence of such visions of loveliness lifted the morale of my troops even more than the marching band and the entire city's turnout for the sendoff; it was a terrific gala. I wish you could have seen the airships that carried our equipment, great white whales the size of stadiums lifting into the sky as they trailed streamers of blue, red, and gold. One day, when your sight returns, we shall commandeer one and fly across Brittania and see every corner of the empire._

_All is well here. The men are eager to prove themselves, as are their officers, Jeremiah most of all. Kewell is an old friend of his and the straighter laced of the two, though no less enthusiastic; I have a feeling they will prove to be an interesting duo in the field. Villeta is the most junior, but clearly exercises the most discipline and best discretion of the three. All of them are fine soldiers whom I can count on—I am in good hands, so do not worry. _

_I hope this letter finds you in gay spirits. I must now see to an uninvited guest, a journalist by the name of Diethard Ried, who claims to be the producer from Hi-TV's Tokyo bureau. Apparently, the man has grown tired of the drudgery of working in Area 11 and has volunteered to embed himself with the regiment and cover the war. Kewell and Villeta seem to not like the idea, but I think some good may come of this. A little media exposure can help lift the spirits of the men and their families at home, and though I doubt I shall come close to commanding the air time that Clovis does, perhaps I will have a shot at my three minutes of fame."_

_Your loving brother,  
Lelouch V. Brittania"_

_

* * *

_

The MC-7 Mobile Base was a massive vehicle that served a variety of roles in Brittanian field formations, usually as the forward command post of divisions or independent regiments. Its four stories housed a modular layout that typically contained a sick bay, internal power generators and water purifier, hangars for 12 knightmare frames, a maintenance bay, a briefing room, a state of the art war center, and living quarters for the unit commander with varying level of amenities depending on the individual's status and preference. By royal standards, the mobile base assigned to Lelouch use was outfitted with modest features: a small suite with private bathroom, two narrow guest rooms with bunk beds and a shared bathroom, a kitchen and dining area, and a small lounge where the three sub-commanders of the regiment presently found themselves waiting in.

Remote in hand, Kewell frowned as he watched the talking heads go back and forth on screen before finally switching off the television and tossing the controller onto the coffee table. "Sitting war, that's what they're calling it now? I say, some of these newsmen are becoming cheeky with their commentary."

Jeremiah turned a page in his copy of _Brittania Today_. "Patience friend, we've only been here three days, it takes at least that long for the men to regroup and gather their kits."

"But the 14th and 15th divisions have been here over a month, and what have they got to show for it? Aside from dropping a few shells on the dunes, they've not made an effort to even touch the enemy, but have been content to dig in and sit on their rears." The young officer—driven to frustration by the inaction and ineptitude he uncovered in the other commands—paced around the room. "And can someone explain to me the logic of sending only two divisions in the first place? Counting their reserves, the NAL has got twenty brigades, more than double our numbers. We can hardly maintain a line around the border as is, much less go on the offense."

Villeta looked up from her binder of notes and intelligence handouts. "We have rough parity in knightmare frames, and in spite of EU aid to the NAL in recent years we still hold the advantage in quality of equipment and training. Perhaps High Command decided that an overwhelming presence on the continent would alarm the Europeans to our intentions and wished to avoid escalation?"

Jeremiah nodded and began to applaud. "An astute assessment, as expected from our honor student, but there is a far simpler explanation to the mess that both of you have yet to consider."

Kewell folded his arms. "Well, perhaps someone would care to enlighten us?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson. Think, what are the odds of three princes—not counting her majesty Cornelia across the strait—ending up in Brittania's one theater of declared war at the same time, and with just enough men and machines at their disposal to make it a square match? Clearly, someone is interested in testing out the brothers' mettles."

"And I suppose you're one to know the Emperor's thoughts; Jeremy of the overdue assignments, whom I rescued from the schoolmaster's reprimands on multiple occasions? The prince must have spent considerable time tutoring you."

Jeremiah's smugness vanished; rising from his seat, he approached the offender until his face was planted right in front of Kewell's before sticking his finger into the young man's chest. "See now, I may not have been the best book learner, but if I recall correctly I did floor you every time we got into the ring or went head to head in a pilot simulation. And most importantly, I'm a Lt. Colonel, which is higher than any limp-legged Kiwi is ever going to reach."

Villeta sighed and shook her head—it was the type of scene which she had witnessed many times before. Kewell's eyes narrowed, the proverbial chip now resting on his shoulder. "Need I remind you, a Kiwi refers to someone from that island of sheep-mongers called New Zealand; my parents are from Australia, or did you sleep through Geography in grade school as well?"

Jeremiah shrugged. "New Zealand, Australia, you're all the same to me."

And so it was that Lelouch walked in on a lively scene featuring his two senior officers as they grappled together and brawled like schoolboys on the blacktop. Nonplussed but for the slight quirk of his brow, the young prince cleared his throat a minute later, at which point the combatants ceased their exchange of insults and blows and stared up like misbehaving children caught in the act. "…A pity I didn't invite Mr. Ried along for this briefing; I would have liked to show him the sort of men my commanders are and the kind of example one would expect them to set for the men."

The two scrambled to attention; Kewell had a cut lip and Jeremiah began to show the hint of a bruise around his left eye. Both kept their gazes averted from their young commander's and looked straight ahead. Lelouch glanced towards Villeta, who stood by with her head bowed apologetically, before turning back to assess the two troublemakers before him. "Well? Am I to have an explanation?"

A moment later, the elder of the two swallowed and replied. "Major Soresi and I were… working out some differences, sire."

The prince's eyes widened. "Really now? From the way the haymakers flew, I'd say working out differences was the last thing you two were doing."

"Body language, sire; sometimes it just gets the point across faster."

The upward twitch in the corner of Kewell's lips did not escape Lelouch's notice. "I see. In that case, I shall sit the two of you out of tonight's operation so you can continue to… work out your differences. Major Villeta, accompany me downstairs to the briefing room."

It was as though they were struck by a sledgehammer—the threat of being left out of the regiment's first action immediately filled the two officers with dread bordered on panic; Kewell's hint of a grin vanished in a blink of an eye. "Please sire, anything but that."

The prince turned to the two offenders once more. "And if I overlook this incident, do I have your word that this sort of tomfoolery won't happen again, especially out in the field?"

Both men nodded solemnly, and Lelouch was satisfied. "Come along then, gentlemen. We've much to discuss, and the clock is ticking."

* * *

_12:48 AM, eleven hours later_

"… So what you're saying is this is not just a prisoner snatch."

His long hair tied back to keep out of the way of his notebook, Diethard Ried looked up at the figure standing on top of an infantry fighting vehicle, whose black cloak blended his silhouette in with the surrounding night. Except for the pale glow from the screen of his computer, no light shown from the men and machines of the Ashfordshire Regiment that surrounded him; headlights were carefully shielded and soldiers' faces painted with camouflage to avoid glare. The quiet hum from vehicle engines and knightmares underscored the tension in the air as all eyes looked towards the cluster of lights fifteen kilometers away.

Lelouch put down his binoculars and checked his watch again. "Two weeks ago, a Brittanian patrol was captured by elements of the 4th Algerian Guards, whose position you see happens to be the northern most anchor of the enemy's encirclement around Area 8, with the Mediterranean on their right flank. Fortunately, months of inaction from my half-brothers Geoffrey and Alfred have lulled the enemy into a justified sense of security; we will exploit that to retrieve the prisoners and then attack."

The sound of typing was heard as Diethard entered a few more lines into his laptop. "Forgive me for saying so, colonel, but even with the element of surprise your plan sounds awfully audacious. Might not a simpler plan be better suited for inexperienced soldiers taking part in their first battle… such as yourself?"

He expected his words to offend the prince, but to his surprise, Lelouch only smiled. "Your advice has been noted. When this is over, feel free to report what you witness, but for now we both have our jobs to do. Good day, Mr. Ried."

Villeta arrived just as Diethard finished packing up his laptop and camera. She saluted the young man on top of the vehicle. "Five minutes, sire."

"Thank you, major." Lelouch tapped twice on his headset as his eyes shifted towards the invisible coastline along the enemy's base. "Black king to knight one, commence phase A in five."

"_Roger. Knight one out."_

Lelouch hopped down, landing beside his adjutant, who observed a slight tremble in her commander's frame in spite of the warmth provided by the specially made cloak; it was an understandable reaction from an untested youth, however brilliant. "Nervous, sire?"

"No… Thrilled."

Jeremiah checked the monitors in his cockpit, spotting through his low-light optical sensors the speedboats containing three squads of special reconnaissance soldiers in the surf to his right, headed for the shore. "Never thought we'd be storming beaches in the desert, eh?"

Kewell's face—accessorized with two Band-Aids along his jaw line from the earlier tussle—appeared on one of his side panels. "No, and hopefully, the enemy hasn't thought of it either."

"If it comforts you any, I've yet to meet anyone who could anticipate the prince's intentions." Jeremiah allowed himself a grin before turning serious to address the small taskforce. "Alright listen up. The enemy's sentry rotates at 0100; Plan A commences at 0101. First and second squad will head for and secure the holding cell. Third squad will plant beacons marking the barracks, pilots' quarters, and knightmare bays for the artillery. Extract with the prisoners by helicopter as soon as Kewell and I clear the air defenses; the two of us will leave the way we came, by landing craft. Move quickly and quietly, and we should be in and out of here in eight minutes."

"Aye sir."

The small flotilla landed silently on the beach minutes later and entered the unguarded side of the base without incident. The main body of the enemy was asleep and the minimal security was disposed of discreetly. Three minutes later, just after the troops entered the holding cells, the first of the unexpected occurred; an enemy knightmare frame that had appeared to be parked and unmanned became alerted to the presence of the intruders. Reacting quickly, Jeremiah decapitated the machine with a swift shot from his slash harken, but not before the dying knightmare fired off a loud, long burst into the air, the string of tracers visible for miles around. The base alarm siren blared, and flood lights soon turned night into day, stripping the rescuers of their cover of darkness. "Kewell, cut the power!"

The major obliged by spraying a cluster of power generators with his knightmare's assault rifle, bursting the vehicles into flame and blacking out three-fourths of the lights within the base, but the damage had been done—enemy radio traffice came to life, and Jeremiah realized that time was running out. "Knight one to all units, we've gone loud. Switching to phase B, get the prisoners away from the walls."

Taking aim carefully, Jeremiah fired a rifle grenade at the building, punching a hole in side of the wall through which the soldiers and their precious cargo poured out. In the background, the sound of Kewell busy holding off the enemy grew louder as the monitor showed the rescue helicopters inbound fast and due to arrive shortly. Catching one exhausted prisoner as he stumbled, he spun towards an oncoming armored vehicle and destroyed it with a burst from his rifle; the time was 0106.

"On your feet, soldier; we are leaving!"

Lelouch didn't need his binoculars to see the bursts of light that lit up the desert around the base. "It has begun. Major, order the men to standby."

"Aye, sire."

"Knight one, what's your status?"

"_The last bird's just lifted off, but our route to the extraction point is cut off."_Lelouch could hear the muffled sounds of explosions and cannon fire in the background. _"Enemy resistance mounting, recommend fire mission commence now, distance danger close."_

"Understood, are you in condition to begin phase C?"

"_Aye."_

"Initiate phase C, I'll see you on the other side."

"_Aye, Knight one out."_

"Jeremy, jump!"

The short radio exchange with Lelouch distracted Jeremiah momentarily from his immediate surroundings, so that he failed to notice the jeep which had lined him up in its sights; Kewell's warning came just in time for him to leap out of harm's way as the large anti-tank missile passed under his Sutherland's feet. A moment later, when the threat had been dealt with, he landed behind Kewell's machine and the two presented their backs to each other, their guns facing outward as they scanned for additional threats through the smoke and wreckages. "Thanks for the shout out."

Kewell grinned. "Still saving your arse after all these years. Will you ever grow up?"

"Cheeky bastard… We've been ordered to phase C, you up for it?"

Kewell responded by cutting out the legs of an approaching enemy knightmare and swapping in a new magazine. "Fight our way through the enemy's front line and link up with the main force? Sounds like a walk in the park."

"Stay on my six, I'll see to it that you get home safe."

"Hah!"

And as the two Sutherlands took off, they left behind them the burning remains of dozens of vehicles and knightmare frames. Thirty seconds later, a barrage of heavy mortar and artillery shells arrived and fell on the pre-designated targets, turning the base into a flaming inferno of thunder and chaos.

* * *

"_Breaking News: Empire Strikes Back._

_May 28, 2016._

_After twelve hours of fierce fighting, the recently arrived 382nd Ashfordshire Regiment commanded by his highness Prince Lelouch V. Brittania has broken through the encirclement around Area 8, driving deep into the rear echelons of the North African League. In the process, the Regiment—or the Black Knights—captured or destroyed 217 armored fighting vehicles, 91 Knightmare frames, 46 artillery pieces, and 19 helicopters. Enemy casualties are estimated to be in the neighborhood of 2,000, while the better part of two brigades—nearly 6,000 men—surrendered… Remnants of the Algerian 4th and 6th Brigade are retreating to the east, their defeat signifying the disintegration of the NAL's Mediterranean flank. As we speak, reports are coming in that the breakthrough of the 382nd to the north has caused the NAL to start a general pullback to eastward… Prior to the attack, a commando raid led by two of the regiment's battalion commanders freed eight Brittanian soldiers from the 15th division who had been taken prisoner two weeks earlier. They are now on their way back to Brittania to be reunited with their families, at which time their names will be released to the public._

_Within seventy-two hours of their arrival in Morocco, the Black Knights from Ashfordshire have altered the entire situation of the front. I have with me now their commander. Your highness, you and your men have won a great victory today, your first battle no less. Without compromising operational security, what can you tell us at this point?_

"_I'm afraid there's not much I can say, Mr. Ried, except how pleased I am with our soldiers and what they've accomplished in both the rescue and ensuing combat. Rest assured that we will not satisfy ourselves with this victory; the war has just begun, and we will continue to press and attack, keeping the enemy guessing as to our whereabouts the entire time… that is our plan for the foreseeable future."_

_More Brittanian forces are now joining the offensive. I shall continue to keep you up to date on the war's progress in the days to come. Diethard Ried, Hi-TV News, embedded with the 382nd Regiment, reporting live from somewhere in North Africa."_

_To be Continued._

_

* * *

_

Author's Notes: I apologize for the long overdue update. A combination of thesis, finals, graduate school business and whatnot put off any chance of fiction writing (and energy for writing) considerably. My heartfelt thanks to all the readers and those who left encouraging and helpful reviews. This chapter has a somewhat different flavor than the previous ones, for obvious reasons. The decision to make Kewell's origin Australian was made based on his name, as was the case with Jeremiah (as a descendant of German immigrants from many generations ago). I hope you enjoyed the way I interpreted the relation between the two. Until next time, and a happy Christmas to all.


	9. Hearts and Minds

_**Chapter 9: Hearts and Minds**_

_**IX. Hearts and Minds**_

_"Our company was somewhere short of the Alger-Tunis border. It was the fifth day of our separation from the main axis of advance—courtesy of an unforeseen sandstorm—and the third day of our encirclement by a battalion-strength NAL force. Not one week ago, our general, Geoffrey F. Brittania, proclaimed over national TV that the enemy had lost all taste for battle and was falling back eastwards in disarray; obviously, the enemy failed to take heed of the message. _

_We were low on ammo, water, rations, and medical supplies… everything except smart comments about our commander and his equally brilliant sibling Alfred, commander of the XV Division. In their haste to catch up—rumors had it that the Black Prince had already taken Tripoli—they had ordered forced marches and left our flanks unsecured, contributing in no small part to our predicament. The odds of someone coming to our aid were nil; old Geoffrey couldn't be bothered to stop and search for a mere company of 114 peasants when he lost face every time the news reported a Black Knights' victory and found his highness couching 300 miles to the rear of the action._

_And so we lay in our desert ditch, sun burnt and dry as jerky, isolated and without hope of relief, our morale sustained only by the creativity of the insults directed towards our commander and his damnable arrogance. The NAL, meanwhile, entertained us with their unique approach to negotiations—misquoting the Swiss Convention while peppering us with mortars 24-7. The pleasantries would end that day however; we saw their knightmare frames move into position, against which we had no counter. The end, as they say, was neigh._

_At that moment, Private Wentz, who was manning the optical range finder, reported erratic behavior in the enemy's movement. The knightmares that had been bearing down on us turned about face towards their six, where there appeared to some sort of growing confusion. Our suspicions were confirmed when an accurate barrage of heavy artillery savaged the enemy's position. We peered over the edges of our shallow fighting holes, trying and failing to see through the clouds of black smoke and thick dust that arose from the fiery carnage. Suddenly Wentz scrambled to his feet, the range finder glued to his eyes even as his lower half began stamping a quirky sort of jig. "It's them, by God it's them! I don't bloody believe it!"_

_"Who, who is it?"_

_"The Black Knights! Blimey, look at em' go. Go get em', ya beautiful bastards!"_

_The entire company was on their feet, too stunned by the turn of events to watch for enemy fire, who in any event was too preoccupied to pay us any attention. The wounded scooted for a better view and those that couldn't move were helped to stand. Then we saw them, emerging from the smoke and scattering the enemy before them like chaff were Sutherlands and Glasgows marked with the black and silver emblem that every Brittanian had come to recognize in the past five weeks and which NAL units learned to flee from on sight; the Black Knights had arrived, appearing out of nowhere as is their wont._

_Amidst the cheering and screaming and back-slapping, one Corporal Hurley, who was in charge of the last working radio in the company, shouted for us to put a sock on it as he fiddled with the dials. With bated breath we huddled around the set and before long the cranky device came to life, and then, over the not-very loud speaker, we heard our deliverer's voice._

_"…This is Lelouch Vi Brittania, commander of the 382nd Ashfordshire. Allied unit, we are approaching you from the East and South-West. Hold your fire to these directions and stand fast, help is on the way."_

_Afterwards, I voiced the opinion that I could've kissed the Prince had he been present and not a single person gave me shite over it. That was the sort of miracle it was."_

_Warrant Officer Joseph Truman, 5th Logistics Company, 27th Field Support Battalion, XIV Division _

_BBC Radio Special: Ten Year Anniversary of the Victory in North Africa, December 16, 2026._

_

* * *

_

When Kewell walked into the mobile base's lounge—which had taken on the secondary function of senior officers' club—he found Villetta and Jeremiah already there, the latter with his collar loosened, legs crossed, and boots propped on top of the table, which was covered in letters, packages, and other paraphernalia that spilled over the edge and onto the floor. The blonde glanced disapprovingly at his senior's slovenly posture as he approached. "What's all this?"

Jeremiah smiled smugly as he made himself even more comfortable. "Fan mail from my admirers."

"Really now?" Reaching down, Kewell picked up several of the envelopes and began flipping through them. "All of these are addressed to the Colonel."

"Villetta has already sorted mine out." Jeremiah gestured to the smaller but still impressive pile next to him on the couch. "Ah, the burdens of stardom, not that the likes of you would ever understand—I spend twenty hours straight in the cockpit, subsisting on nothing but canned tea and tinned pudding, stepping out only to relieve myself, and what do I find when I get off? All this paperwork waiting for me."

"Then why read them? Why not just recycle them? I'll fetch the shredder."

"Because," wagging his finger in admonishment, the elder man daintily picked out a chocolate from a freshly opened box. "Reading love letters from patriotic young damsels helps me unwind between missions. Here, these came from a bird in Hawaii. They have Macadamia nuts inside, have one."

Turning aside with a barely concealed look of disgust, Kewell plopped down next to Villetta, who sat opposite of the gloating Jeremiah and shifted to make room for him on the small couch. Without looking up from her laptop, she spoke in a quiet voice to her fuming fellow officer. "You have a few letters of your own; if you must know, I counted both piles and you beat him by one."

That tidbit of information mollified Kewell considerably, and he smiled in silent gratitude to the woman besides him. Then, seemingly struck by inspiration, he reached across the table to the pile of stationary next to Jeremiah and withdrew a large handful. These he went through until his eyes lit upon what he had been hoping to find. Breaking the seal of a particularly ornate envelope, he withdrew a card and began to read. "… Dear Lieutenant Colonel Gottwald, I hope this letter finds you in fine health and high spirits. The truth is I have become smitten by you the first time your image appeared in the front pages. All of my girl friends tease me ceaselessly over my crush, but I'm certain that I am not alone in my adoration for you…"

Jeremiah drank it all in, leaning back in satisfaction as he slung one arm over the back of his seat and motioned with his other for Kewell to continue.

"… I have meticulously clipped out every article and image that tells your magnificent deeds of gallantry for my album, which is my greatest treasure. Assured that my mind is always filled with thoughts of you and your safe return. Yours, Paulie. Hugs and kisses, etc, etc, etc."

Jeremiah sighed contentedly. "Paulie, eh? What a charming young lady. I suppose I'll have to answer that one."

"You should. Here, "she" was thoughtful enough to include a photo of herself."

"Topping, let me take a… GAAAHH!"

Recoiling as if stabbed with a hot poker, Jeremiah's expression was one of undiluted horror as he looked down at the Polaroid of the well-built man squeezed into a daisy sundress with a yellow ribbon wound through shocking red hair. Villetta's shoulders trembled as she barely managed to hold back her laughter while Kewell made no similar attempt to hide his mirth at Jeremiah's comical reaction, instead turning over the card to reveal a bright pink kiss mark. "Those are some rather pronounced lips, bigger than yours even."

"Stop that!" The distraught officer sat bent over, his hands fisted into his hair as the previously endearing contents of the letter took on a terrible new light.

"Must be swell having so many admirers, eh? Wait till the troops hear about this; after all the fighting I'm sure they could use a good laugh to lighten their spirits."

A dangerous look appeared on Jeremiah's face. "I swear, Soresi, if you utter one word of this to anyone..."

Kewell made a zipping motion across his grin and drew a dramatic cross over his chest. "On my honor. Now, I came to remind you that we've a meeting with the prince at 1400, so you'll have to put off the reply to Mr. Paulie until later. See you in half an hour."

* * *

_"… Last Weekend the Marquess of Camden held a garden concert at his summer home and was kind enough to invite me. Euphie went with me. The hostess Lady Camden received us with great consideration and generosity. All through the evening I was approached by distinguished persons who spoke commendably of your campaign and ladies who wished to hear stories of you at home..."_

The sound of knocking led Lelouch to look up from the letter, which he folded and replaced in the envelope. "Enter."

The door to the conference room aboard the mobile base slid upon and Villetta walked in, delivering a crisp salute. Lelouch returned the gesture and glanced at the clock on the wall. "Major, five minutes early as always."

"I apologize if I've interrupted anything you were in the middle of, Sire."

"Not at all, I was just catching up on letters from home; it has been a while since the couriers managed to find us." Lelouch's finger tapped slowly against the envelope on the table. "It seems that my work here has improved the court's reception of my sister back home."

Villetta smiled, and that was when Kewell and Jeremiah showed up, the latter still glaring daggers at his junior. When all four were seated, Lelouch turned off the lights and the strategic map table in the middle of the room lit up. "We'll start with the situation report. Major Villetta, bring us up to date."

She stood and opened the appropriate file on her laptop. "Since landing thirty-nine days ago, the 382nd Ashfordshire has fought fourteen separate engagements. As a result enemy forces have been driven out of Algeria and are seeking to regroup West, around the oasis of Sabha. We've captured or destroyed significant quantities of enemy materiel, including 266 knightmare frames, 324 tracked and wheeled armored vehicles, 2458 wheeled transports, 97 artillery pieces of all sorts, and thirty-three helicopters. We've also inflicted an estimated 8300 casualties on the enemy and captured an additional 27700. Due to the number of enemies surrendering, at any given time two of our companies are taken up transporting prisoners to the rear for processing."

Lelouch nodded. "What about our losses?"

"Forty-three wounded, eleven of whom were flown back to Morocco for further treatment. Also, nineteen of our knightmares are out of action; nine are beyond what field repairs we can perform and will be cannibalized for parts. The rest should be operational again in sixteen hours."

"Which leaves us with 67 serviceable frames." Lelouch said as he looked at the reports before him. "What word on the Sutherlands promised us?"

"XIV Division HQ says it will be ten days before the next shipment arrives at port in Area 8, plus another week for them to unload and deliver the machines to us."

"Bloody fantastic." Jeremiah raised his arms in exasperation. "I've already got a Sutherland in my battalion that's borrowed an arm and shoulder plate from a Glasgow and a Glasgow that's got a leg from a Sutherland. We call the new mechs Frankensteins, and I've a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of their kind in the near future."

Kewell raised his brows at the mild outburst, but Lelouch, aware of his second in command's frustration, let the complaint slide. "What of our supply situation?"

"We're good on essentials; we've abundant ammunition, motor fuel, and water captured from enemy stocks. What we lack are land spinners for the knightmares and treads for the tanks and IFVs; our inventory is nearly depleted due to our operational tempo. XV Division, who is responsible for our logistics, has refused to send us supplies, citing the distance between our locations and the danger of ambushes by enemy stragglers; they demand that we hold our current position and wait for them to catch up."

A grim look came over Kewell's expression. "Ironic how it is not the enemy but our own allies who keep us from advancing; if not for the utter ridiculousness of the notion, I'd almost suspect that they were deliberately holding us back."

"…On the contrary, major, it is more likely than you think." Lelouch rested his chin against his folded hands and studied the map display which tracked the progress made so far by Brittanian forces, the green triangle representing the 382nd regiment far ahead of the two larger formations. "For my half brothers Geoffrey and Alfred, more is at stake in this war than the outcome; specifically, their standing in the eyes of my father. It would not surprise me at all if they'd rather I fail than allow us to win the war single-handedly."

The room fell quiet following the prince's statement as each contemplated the gravity of the situation on their own. Jeremiah, who best understood the true nature of his master's struggle, folded his arms before his chest and seethed. Kewell and Villetta, who over the months had begun to recognize the handicaps and pressures their commander faced from within, turned to the young man who remained deep in thought. At last, Lelouch appeared to make up his mind.

"Major Kewell, are the men aware of the reason behind our logistics problem?"

"I believe so; my officers report that in spite of high morale the troops frequently complain about the tardy arrival of supplies."

"Major Villetta, how many enemy knightmares have we captured intact?"

"Eighteen frames are operational, Sire."

"Very well. Ladies and gentlemen, in two days this is what I wish to see reported by our friend Mr. Diethardt in the news: On the late night of 12 July, a NAL raiding force penetrated to the rear of advancing Brittanian columns and ambushed a supply convoy from the XV Division. No casualties were suffered, but the enemy made off with valuable supplies, including spare parts and victuals. Fortunately, the raiding force was intercepted by elements of the 382nd Regiment as they tried to cross back to their own lines, and the supplies were recovered after a fierce action." Lelouch stood up and leaned forward, his palms resting against the table as the light from the strategic grid below illuminated his face with a peculiar glow. "…Have I made myself clear?"

The three officers rose to their feet. "Yes, my lord."

"Good, this meeting is adjourned. Jeremiah, you're in charge of this operation. Pick your best men, and remember: no casualties."

A wide grin spread across Jeremiah's face. "I'll go easy on them, Sire."

* * *

When Lelouch opened his eyes, he felt a familiar tingle in the side of his neck that told him he had dozed off at his desk, which was in a state of mild disorder—covered in maps, reconnaissance photos, and intelligence reports. His bedroom was dark but for the lamp besides him and the dim light which filtered in through the window blinds. Sitting up slowly to spare his tense muscles, he noticed that someone had covered him with a blanket. The clock on his desk read 12:45 AM—he had slept nearly two hours.

Stretching his arms over his head with a groan, he stood and left his room, making his way into the spacious common area of the mobile base's third floor. He found Villetta sitting alone at the kitchen counter, a steaming mug beside her as she watched television with the volume set at a low level. When she noticed his presence she turned and was about to stand before Lelouch motioned for her to remain seated. "Any news?"

"Negotiations continue between the Chancellor and the European Union. Aside from that, nothing noteworthy."

"If even Schneizel can't convince the Europeans to give up their support for the League, then this war may well continue for a while longer." Lelouch sat down on the stool beside his subordinate and she poured him a cup of earl grey.

"Sire, you must try get some rest. You've been pushing yourself harder than any of us these past few weeks; if this continues your body will surely collapse."

"I will. The regiment will hold until Kewell and Jeremiah return from their mission, so we should get some sound sleep in the next few nights..."

Suddenly, Lelouch began to chuckle, a development which left Villetta much confused. "Is something the matter, Sire?"

"For a moment you reminded me of my elder sister. Years ago, she would stay the night from time to time, and when she caught me up past my bed time a lecture always followed."

"Forgive me, I did not mean to…"

"Thank you." Lelouch smiled and glanced towards the direction of his room, "For the blanket and your consideration."

He took a sip of his tea and set the cup down. "I'm going to go check the perimeter. Feel free to turn in anytime, major. Goodnight."

Instead, she rose and retrieved her heavy coat. "… I will go with you, Sire."

Ten minutes later, the two strolled through the sleeping regiment under the quarter-moon sky, their breaths visible as trailing white vapors in the cold night air. Guided by a red flashlight, they made their way around tents and vehicles and crates until they arrived at the edge of camp and surprised one of the sentries who immediately recognized his superiors and snapped to rigid attention. "Major! Colonel!"

"At ease, soldier. How are things looking?"

"No sign of the enemy, my lord."

At Lelouch's request the private handed him the low-light binoculars which he used to scan the Western approach. Satisfied, the prince returned the device to the soldier, glancing at his name patch as he did so. "Private Pearson, is it? We'll be here for the next two days while waiting for supplies to arrive, so rest well."

"Aye, appreciate the shuteye, my lord."

"Did you receive any mail?"

"Aye Sire, from the folks back home. They say that ours is the most renowned unit in the whole army now, and that you're a hero. My silly sisters even begged me to try and get your autograph…"

"Certainly."

"I beg your pardon?" As the young soldier stared in wide-eyed amazement, the Prince of Brittania began sifting through his pockets and, coming up empty, turned to the officer standing behind him.

"Major, have you got a pen?" She did. "Alright, Pearson, what would you like me to sign on?"

The private produced a photo of his family from his breast pocket, on the back of which Lelouch penned his name and a short dedication in flowing elegant script. The young soldier remained in a state of awe until the prince returned the photo to him. "Thank you very, very much, my lord! The chaps on the squad won't believe me when I tell them about this."

And so it was at the end of the day—as he did since every day since the moment he set foot on the continent—that Lelouch further consolidated the hearts and minds of those who served under him, and his reputation grew amongst households both great and small throughout the empire and beyond.

_To be Continued _

_

* * *

_

_**Author's Notes:**__ I apologize, once again, for the long delay in between updates. This time the culprit was the necessity to start looking for a job and applying to more law schools. I hope that my old readers are still with me, and am grateful to those who continue to visit this story. A fairly transitional chapter, the next one should contain more dramatic developments._


	10. R&R

_**X.**__**R&R**_

_"Tobruk was a natural fortress buttressed with manmade defenses, a massive bowl-shaped dune on the coast with slopes two hundred feet high, covered in powdery sand too fine for tires and land spinners to gain traction on. Bristling from the ridgeline were entrenched guns and pillboxes that dotted the perimeter like bastions of a castle. Ordered into reserve upon arrival, we stretched our legs and waited for the two divisions to catch up and join the war. The defense was expectedly rugged, for the fall of Tobruk—the last enemy stronghold in North Africa—would mean the war's end and peace on our terms. Time and again our assaults were repelled, and soon the lone highway leading into the citadel filled with skeletons of burnt out machines. _

_Two weeks and three thousand casualties later time ran out for Geoffrey and Alfred. The public once again grew restless, the media unforgiving, and the look on the Emperor's face, one presumes, increasingly sour. To save their necks—and share the blame in the event of another failure—they called upon the Ashfordshire Regiment to join the next assault._

_Unease was evident at the battalion-level meeting as we heard Lt. Colonel Jeremiah's brief. Up until now Prince Lelouch (whom we officers called "Old Man" in jest) saw to it that we always fought with an unfair advantage. We misinformed, feinted, and cut supply routes; we made sure the enemy was confused, blind, parched, starved, and sleep-deprived before we struck. We would now have to attack a determined defender, comfortable in his fortress, in daytime, over exposed terrain. My colleague Captain Havilland likened the task to a World War I infantry charge across no man's land, hardly the image one wishes to dwell on the night before leading an attack. Sensing the mood, the Lt. Colonel concluded his remarks with a motivator. "Gentlemen," He said as he exhaled a puff of smoke from his seven pound cigar, "after we take that fort tomorrow, no women on the planet will be able to resist us, depend on it."_

_Except Major Villeta, but we'd be happy with the remainder just fine._

_At 0500, XIV and XV Divisions launched their attack via the highway from the Southeast. To their dismay we did not take part; the Old Man had other plans. At 0510, after the main body of defenders had displaced to confront the threat, 382nd Regiment attacked from the West along the coast. We pushed up the slopes with every treaded vehicle in our inventory, spearheaded by the lumbering Longbows. Our knightmares—land spinners useless on the quicksand-like surface—hitched behind the tanks like schoolboys free-riding on double-deckers, firing as they went. This undoubtedly raised our foe's ire, as they began shooting back and knocked the treads off several of the lead vehicles. When the assault began to bog down, I picked out the Lt. Colonel's Sutherland, crouched behind his disabled "tractor." What he did next would enter into the rich annals of Britannian army lore._

_"C'mon lads, your Prince is watching!" And then to our horror, he abandoned his cover and began to RUN his way up the remainder of the slope. His contempt for the enemy's aim appeared to act as an invisible shield, and when he reached the ridgeline, our horror turned to inspiration. The drivers gave up their zigzagging maneuvers, popped smoke screens, and floored the pedal towards the top where their commander was terrorizing the dispirited defenders. In a few minutes the rest of the regiment gained the ridge and by midday the business was done. Tobruk was ours."_

_Captain Hugh Chadwick, George Company, 3rd armored cavalry troop, 382nd Ashfordshire Regiment; from "In His Highness' Service"; HarperCollins, 2057."_

_

* * *

_

Lelouch faced towards the direction of the flashing bulbs and microphones; the press corps that his brothers had taken the trouble to assemble and fly in weeks ago was now put to good use, albeit for a different purpose than they originally intended. Images of Britannia's favorite son appeared before audiences around the globe as the Empire reveled in her latest triumph. Behind the prince the imperial banner flew above the bunker which used to house the fort's command center. Assembled at the flag's base were soldiers who proudly displayed the colors of the Black Knights as they cheered and posed for the folks at home.

Lelouch had much reason to be pleased; his casualties were light, his jealous siblings' designs backfired, delivering all the glory into his hands while they inherited the embarrassment of four failed attempts to take the fort. For one of the few times in his life his smile was heartfelt rather than a service to the public. He pointed at Diethard Ried, rewarding his faithful war correspondent the final question of the press conference, for though the man did not contribute towards his victories his services proved invaluable in turning his battlefield successes into reputation and fame. The long-haired journalist rose above his peers, pen and pad in hand as he made eye contact with his host. "My Lord, I've just received word that a motion at court to create you Earl of Ashfordshire has passed. You have also been promoted to brigadier general, making you the youngest ever to hold the rank. Any thoughts?"

Lelouch chuckled. "It is an honor, but I'd rather they had sent me forty more knightmares instead."

* * *

"Persian oranges, blood oranges, orange juice, orange concentrate, orange blossom honey, orange sorbet… put this in the freezer please." With a smooth underhand, Kewell lobbed the container across the room to Villeta, who caught and placed the icy treat in the refrigerator.

"Orange wafers, orange in light syrup, crème brulee a l'orange, marmalade… Gottwald's Genuine Orange Pekoe? I say, your father has really outdone himself expanding the old family business' product offerings. These care packages just become more outrageous with each passing year." Kewell said without looking up as he stood amidst the packing crates, arrived earlier that morning from Florida by special courier.

Jeremiah sat by himself at the lounge and continued to look outside. "Just finishing taking what you want. I'll hand out the rest to my troops."

"Even the orange liquor?" Kewell glanced at over at his superior, whose countenance was unusually tempered compared to the festive atmosphere in the camp, where celebration amongst the rank and file was still in full swing. "You're not still hung up with that case of citrusphobia, are you?"

Jeremiah slammed his fist against the table. "I do not have citrusphobia; it's not even a bloody word!"

"Citrusphobia, a fear of… oranges?" Lelouch walked in as if on cue. Jeremiah blanched, Villeta leaned against the counter with her arms folded; clearly this was something new for her as well.

Clearing his throat, Kewell proceeded to explain. "When the lieutenant colonel was six, he fell from a gangplank into a vat of orange pulp while visiting the family juice plant; nearly drowned. The incident has instilled in him an irrational fear of oranges ever since. The doctor coined the term citrusphobia for his condition, as there were no prior cases."

"That's a lie!" His outburst was quickly cooled with a glance from Lelouch. "I meant, sire, that I do not have an irrational fear of oranges, at least, not anymore. I merely hate them."

Silence ensued. Lelouch frowned; he had not realized that his right hand man possessed such a weakness and wondered whether, if made known, the knowledge could be used against him in the future. He quickly decided that the odds for such an event were thin and the notion was on a whole too ridiculous to be concerned over. Thus resolved, he approached the crates and began looking through the contents, holding up and examining a perfectly ripe fruit. "I believe the occasion of our victory calls for celebration, a special meal, and here we have just the ingredients."

And Jeremiah felt the weight on his chest joined by a sensation not unlike motion sickness.

Lelouch did the cooking, as the cook—like most other members of the regiment—had been given 72 hours leave. After the meal of orange chicken, kippers with orange slices, green salad with orange dressing, and orange sorbet, Lelouch left to take care of certain travel arrangements and Jeremiah retired to his tent, citing a need to lie down. The two majors stood next to each other before the kitchen sink, one rinsing and the other drying in silent partnership until Villeta spoke. "I don't understand why you keep on doing that."

Kewell took the plate from her. "Doing what?"

"Annoy the lieutenant colonel."

"I was merely being informative for His Highness' sake." He dried off the dish with a cloth and placed it in the cupboard.

"And the time with the male fan mail?"

Her fair-skinned colleague colored slightly and sighed. "I've known Jeremiah for years—always had the misfortune of ending up in the same class or unit as him. This… rivalry of ours goes way back."

"That's why you two work so well together."

"In spite of it is more likely." The dishes finished, Kewell knelt down and opened the cupboard to fetch the kettle. "Tea?"

Minutes later, the two officers sat down at the cleared dining table with a pot of Darjeeling between them. Outside, the noise level from the camp died down as men began dozing off after yet another night of merrymaking. Kewell leaned back in his chair. "So, what will you do after you get your wish and the prince makes you a peer?"

"You don't know that he will."

"I imagine he would, you've earned it. The Right Honourable Lady Villeta, Baroness Nu, has a nice ring to it."

She chuckled and with chin in hand appeared to think the matter over. "All my life I've wanted to become a member of the aristocracy, but now that it seems within reach I'm not actually sure how I plan on enjoying that privilege."

Kewell smirked as he raised his mug. "True, one can hardly imagine you in petticoats with a parasol."

"Nor can I, at least now my parents will stop sending me portraits of doctors and barristers; it wouldn't do for a noblewoman to wed beneath her station after all." Taking a slow sip, Villeta turned the question back on her companion. "What of you? What will you do when you receive your peerage?"

Kewell looked towards the ceiling. "I suppose I'll stay, retiring when I make Brigadier or outrank Jeremiah, whichever comes first."

"Rise past the lieutenant colonel?" Villeta's cup paused on the way to her lips. "That's your goal?"

"There are days when, weary of cleaning up after his messes, I can think of nothing better than to have him report to me for a change." When her brows remained raised, the Australian gave a grin that was nearly like a grimace. "You don't think I stand a chance, do you?"

She shook her head and smiled. "One never knows, though I can easily picture you making High Command, even General Staff. The straitlaced culture there seems perfect for someone of your disposition."

Kewell laughed.

* * *

"… so we'll visit Gibraltar, stay the night, and be back tomorrow by noon. When Jeremiah is feeling better inform him that he's in charge of the regiment in my absence."

At three-thirty in the afternoon, Lelouch stood on the tarmac of the airfield as he left instructions to Kewell. Behind him were Villeta and the military transport that would fly him to the Britannian territory on southern tip of the Iberian Peninsula, where his sister was waiting. When he was finished, he boarded the aircraft and in a few minutes Tobruk was little more than a dot on the coastline. He looked across the table to his companion, who continued to adjust her harness to keep the apparatus from creasing her dress uniform. "Nervous?"

"A little, Sire."

"It will be an informal meeting, just dinner and conversation."

"Aye Sire, still, one cannot help feeling excited about meeting Princess Cornelia."

Lelouch opened the day's edition of the Daily Telegraph; the cessation of hostilities and capture of Tobruk's airport and port facilities meant not only the arrival of fresh foodstuffs but also regular mail service and newspapers. The latest reports indicated that Schneizel was close to concluding a treaty with the NAL that, while involving no transfer of territories, would lease Britannia all naval and military bases along the North African coast for up to 99 years, ensuring the Empire's ability to project power into the Mediterranean, a fact that caused the EU extreme consternation. Combined with war indemnities of one percent GDP for the duration of ten years, the terms were heavy but not oppressively so in light of the Empire's treatment of her defeated foes in recent times.

He knew well that Schneizel's made the offer out of reasons besides generosity, though that was how most would perceive it; he knew that annexing the nations would almost certainly bring Europe into the war and guarantee years of armed resistance from the native populace. Unlike Area Eleven and its sakuradite mines, North Africa had no economic incentive worth mentioning which would justify a costly occupation, so the decision, while questioned by some as being too lenient towards the belligerents, was in fact most profitable for the Empire's strategic purposes.

"My boy!" Three hours later, Lelouch alighted from the plane and immediately found himself caught in a breath-taking bear hug that lifted him off the ground. The scar-faced soldier pounded him on the back and bellowed in laughter. "Still thin like a reed I see, and not a shade darker after all this time in the desert."

Lelouch glanced at the members of Cornelia's personal guard who formed the welcome committee—despite their reputation for discipline, he noted that the sight of their tough-as-nails commander squeezing the air out of a prince of Britannia raised a number of brows. "Hello, Andreas. You look well."

"Couldn't be better. That was a brilliant job you did down there, magnificent job. Gilbert and I have been following your progress on a daily basis and making predictions on your next moves. Naturally, with my extra years of experience and accumulated wisdom, I came out on top. Isn't that right, Gilbert?"

Guilford reached in and began to separate the teacher from his pupil. "Yes, you've mentioned that plenty of times already." The bespectacled knight turned to Lelouch. "You would not believe the airs he's been carrying about the last several months, as if he was the one who won the war."

"Considering he was the one who taught him, I believe Darlton deserves some of the credit."

The three turned to find Cornelia, dressed in her best military finery. The guards snapped to stiff attention as the empire's most celebrated soldier approached the small group, white boot heels clicking crisply against the asphalt until she stood before her younger brother. For a minute, the siblings merely looked at each other until Cornelia raised her hand in salute. "You've done well, colonel."

Lelouch returned the gesture. "Thank you, General."

"And this must be Major Nu, whom I've read so much about." Cornelia turned towards Villeta and smiled. "On behalf of the royal family, I thank you for your services."

"Your words are on wasted on me, my lady."

"Come now, dinner awaits."

Dinner was held at the Moorish Castle, in a dining room with a view of the strait that separated the continents. Originally constructed over ten centuries ago, the castle had undergone extensive renovation in past decades to serve as the permanent command center for all Britannian forces stationed in the African-European theater. The five talked cordially over pitchers of sangria and roasted salt marsh lamb, the topic never straying far from details of Lelouch's recent exploits, the shortcomings of the current generation Sutherlands, and the degradation of combined arms training due to a singular dependency on knightmares which became evident in the final assault. At the conclusion of the meal, Guilford and Darlton invited Villeta to join them at the officer's club for drinks and billiards, leaving Cornelia and Lelouch alone to catch up.

For several minutes after arriving in the princess' chambers the siblings said nothing except to hold each other in close embrace. Over the years they had taught themselves to maintain a polite distance in public, treating each other as professionals even before confidants such as Darlton. But here, alone and secure from scrutiny and potential ill-wishers, there was no need to maintain pretense; here they could be family.

"Let me have a good look at you." Cupping his face in her hands, Cornelia examined her younger brother closely, which produced a frown from the elder woman. "I didn't think it was possible, but it looks as though you've grown even thinner. Are you sure you've been eating properly?"

"Yes sister."

Still Cornelia was not satisfied. "I shall have to fatten you up before we return to Britannia. Euphie will have a fit if she thought that you weren't taking care of yourself."

"Have you heard from her lately?"

"Just this morning, I told her that you were coming to visit. She made me promise that we'd all have dinner together as soon as we return."

"Shouldn't be long; we could be home by Armistice Day, plenty of time before Christmas."

She brushed aside a strand of hair from his face. "Still nearly two months left and already so excited?"

The younger sibling looked up with a look resembling a pout and averted his gaze as Cornelia continued to smile fondly. "… Not especially."

The two took turns in the bathroom, Lelouch taking his time as he savored the hot soak in the lavish surroundings. When they finished, a video call was made to their younger sisters and the four siblings enjoyed a reunion of sorts, catching up on the mundane and precious details of life at home, like Nunally's singing lessons and Clovis' brief but gift-laden visit which he managed by sneaking a vacation from his duties as Governor of Area Eleven.

That night, sharing a bed with his elder sister, Lelouch enjoyed the soundest, most uninterrupted sleep he had had since he embarked on his campaign.

* * *

"So, I trust that Darlton and Guilford showed themselves to be good hosts?"

"Very, sire. I learned much from speaking with them."

"Good." Back on the plane and en route to Tobruk, Lelouch turned his attention to the notebook before him. "As soon as we return we'll begin the task of sorting out prisoners and cataloguing our remaining equipment and those we captured."

Villeta made a note in her own computer. "Aye sire, I'll forward the relevant data to High Command."

"Put in a request for extra personnel to speed the process along. We'll also need… what is that?"

He pointed out the window, and through the tinted double-thick windows a small object glinting in the sun appeared to approach from the coast below at high speed. Seconds later a high pitched din began to sound inside the cabin as one the pilots yelled from the cockpit. "Missile alert! Hold on!"

The aircraft tilted ninety-degrees and began a hard jink towards the direction of land, sending drinks and notebooks spilling across the cabinet. Lelouch fought off the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him as the harness strained against his abdomen from the violent maneuver. Seconds turned to minutes to hours until the pilot called. "We're clear… wait, second missile inbound!"

In the midst of the chaos, Lelouch caught a glimpse of a bright flash near the wing tip, followed by the one of the engines erupting into flames and holes punched into the fuselage, sending the plane into a spinning plunge. He was aware of the pilot's frantic distress call over the roar of the depressurizing cabin. He saw his adjutant's head hanging loose, passed out in front of him. The last thing he heard was the sound of a loud hiss and boom, and then the world went black.

* * *

Cornelia had just begun reviewing the day's report on European troop movement when she heard the knock on her office door.

"Enter."

It was Darlton. When she looked up and saw his expression her heart sank—Darlton had been the one to inform her of Marianne's death six years ago, and he was wearing the same look now. "Tell me."

"My lady, Prince Lelouch's transport has been shot down."

_To be Continued._

_

* * *

_

_Author's Notes: How long has it been, three months? No excuse, really. Unfortunately, the law school applications largely didn't pan out, and I will prepare once more for the LSAT while continuing the job hunt in the mean time. If any of my old readers are still around, thanks for sticking by._

_Barring overwhelming reader response, this will be the last time I make light of Jeremiah's connection with oranges; the scene early in the chapter was mostly a tribute to the unintended fallout created by the original's Orange Incident. The reader should also by now be able to discern a few of my preferences—kinks, if you would—which include favoritism for Kewell and finding the idea of Cornelia doting on Lelouch irresistible._

_Well, until next time._


	11. Foul Plays

_**XI. Foul Plays**_

_""… The people's reaction was swift and severe—in the twenty-four hours following the assassination of Prince Lelouch mobs swarmed and laid siege to European embassies and consulates throughout the Empire, prompted by initial reports that the EU was behind the attack. No deaths occurred, but numerous foreign staff workers as well as protestors were injured during the upheaval. The disruption was such that the local and regional constabulary was overwhelmed and the Territorial Army was summoned to restore civic order. _

_The press fed fuel to the flames with bold oversized headlines such as "Day of Infamy" and "Britannia Must Strike Back." When search parties failed to account for the correct number of bodies at the crash site, suspicion arose that the celebrated young royal had been captured by his assailants. The spokesperson for the EU summarily denied any complicity in the affair but to no avail; the masses, seized by passion and stoked by fresh recollection of their dashing hero of the desert demanded retribution in blood._

_The incident's fallout was felt also in the political sphere where cooler heads were in session. Bolstered by popular sentiment, the Hawks prevailed over their more moderate counterparts at court and passed motion to expel the EU's representatives from the negotiation table at Tripoli, sidelining the Union from further talks with the North African League. They stopped short of expelling all European diplomats only at the intervention of Chancellor Schneizel, who strove to maintain official channels of communication in spite of the deteriorating situation. _

_His efforts were torpedoed when less than two days later, after months of relative inactivity overseeing the defenses of Gibraltar, Princess Cornelia surprised and routed several European units before enemy reserves ground the blitz to a halt, the attack prompting Europe to recall its ambassadors. Shortly afterwards, Princes Geoffrey and Alfred announced their plan to occupy Cairo and seize the Suez Canal in retaliation against Europe's "heinous and ignoble injury against our brother and fellow officer."_

_Though it is now known that a timetable had already been established for an Atlantic campaign, and that the incident merely coincided with and advanced the schedule by a short period, at the time, it seemed clear to all that the attempt on Prince Lelouch's life had tipped the World irreversibly into another period of war._

_Sir Colin Sinclair; Britannian Conquests in the 21st Century; Random House, 2067"_

_

* * *

_

_The Capital, Palace Grounds_

Euphemia was roused from bed by her maid in the dead of night. When she heard the news, the princess briefly wondered whether this was a bad dream that she might soon wake from, like those she had experienced from time to time since Lelouch left home. After a captain from the Security Service arrived to brief her with what little facts were known, she immediately called for her carriage and asked to be taken to the Aeries Palace, insisting that she be the one to bear the ill news to Nunally. Looking out the window of the car she caught sight of unsettling bright glows and a multitude of voices and noise coming from the direction of Embassy Row. Unconsciously, she pulled her fur-lined coat closer around herself, having departed in such haste so has to have nothing on but what she had worn to bed.

She now sat besides her sister in front of the television as the news footage altered between scenes of pandemonium and scenes of peace—outdoor vigils and candlelit interiors of churches as tens of thousands prayed for the deliverance of their prince. A man and woman dressed in plain dark suits stood outside the door of Nunally's bedroom, with more agents from the Security Service posted throughout the main house and the vicinity of the residence. It was explained that they were merely there as a precaution, as the Royal Palace was the most secure location in the Empire, if not the world.

Euphemia held her younger sister's hands between her own, knowing well that the comforting gesture was as much for Nunally's benefit as for her own. She called Gibraltar half an hour ago, hoping to obtain the updates regarding the search and rescue effort and Cornelia's safety, only to have her call taken by Guilford, who informed her that no news was yet forthcoming, that all efforts were being made to locate the prince, and that Cornelia was safe, albeit too busy at the moment to come to the phone. Relieved though she was at the trusted knight's assurance, the knowledge that her elder sister was too preoccupied to even speak with her impressed further upon Euphemia the grave reality of the situation.

"Euphie?"

"Yes?" Spotting the clock at the corner of the screen, she realized how late it was. Wiping quickly at the corner of her eyes, she smiled and stood. "I'm sorry, you must be tired. I'll tuck you in and stay here tonight, if there is any news I'll wake you right away…"

The small pair of hands she had been holding took hers instead. Euphemia paused; outwardly composed but for the telltale sign of tears, she was numb with fear for Lelouch's fate despite knowing that uncertainty was far better than confirmation of what she dreaded most. "Nunally?"

"Don't worry, everything will be well."

Euphemia realized her hands were trembling; was she that afraid? Had she not prepared herself for the possibility that he might not return, a possibility she was reminded of every time she donned her black veil to visit the next of kin of soldiers who had died overseas?

"Brother promised he would come back to us. He's never broken a promise before."

Nunally gave her hand a gentle squeeze, the younger sibling's unshakable faith in her brother—her only real family left in the world—hiding whatever grief and insecurity she was experiencing. In the face of such surprising strength Euphemia felt her own give out and she sank to the floor, head and arms folded in Nunally's lap as she wept and grieved and prayed for his safe return. Praised as an expert of empathy to those most in need, only the princess understood the irony of her situation; how easily she came undone when confronted with the loss of the one with whom her heart rested

* * *

_Somewhere along the North African coast_

Lelouch was aware that he was being moved. The seat of his pants scraped against grit and pebbles as he was dragged along in indelicate fashion by anonymous hands linked beneath his arms. He was laid to rest with his back propped against an uneven surface—a boulder or a broken wall that provided some shade, for the air immediately felt cooler. A lone pair of footsteps departed and then returned after an indeterminable length of time. He flinched at first to the touch of moisture against the side of his face before relaxing to the soothing sensation. Moments later he opened his eyes, his blurry vision refocusing onto the face before him, and he exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

Villetta smiled. "Welcome back, my Lord."

She produced a packet of oral rehydration formula which he forced himself to drink slowly. Ten minutes later, sufficiently recovered from the shock of a rough landing, Lelouch stood up to survey their surroundings. The smoldering ruins of their aircraft was visible in the far distance, the exact distance being difficult to gauge due to visual distortion caused by rising air from the oppressive heat. About 100 meters away was their seating from the transport, sitting amidst a mess of silken parachute and a deflated rubber-like membrane; the two oversized chairs which he and his subordinate occupied had been ejected as a unit, breaking away from the disintegrating fuselage of the plane before the membrane inflated to form a compartmentalized cocoon that surrounded the passengers inside, protecting them from impact and other hazardous elements.

The knightmare frame had been borne out of a solution for pilots to safely exit their vehicles in instances of fatal structural failure, and over the years, Britannian engineers had refined and applied their know-how on ejection seats and escape pods to a wider range of platforms, including the VIP transport which Lelouch had the good fortune of traveling on. He knew not the fate of the two pilots; in the chaos which followed the missile's impact against the aircraft's wing the plane had spun out of control. Scanning all around, he saw no sign of other ejection seats. It was possible that they had landed beyond the wreckage hidden from his line of sight or into the ocean; it was also possible that their seats had failed to launch at all. "Any guess as to where our location is?"

The female officer bowed her head as she considered. "We were flying East along the coastline; given that we were thirty-five minutes out from Tobruk when we were struck, we should be about… 300 miles West of where the regiment is stationed."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Lelouch noticed that Villetta was favoring her left arm. More demanding of his immediate attention however was the pulsing red light emitting from the back of one of the ejection seats. "Signal beacon?"

"Aye, friendly forces should be en route as we speak."

Not saying a word, Lelouch trekked back to the site from where Villetta had pulled him clear of. Mentally congratulating himself for choosing to wear his service pistol, which had been an optional accessory to his dress uniform, he withdrew the gun from his waist and taking careful aim fired twice into the blinking transmitter embedded in the rear of the seat. He then circled around and repeated the procedure to the other seat as his adjutant came running up to him. "My Lord! Why…"

"The people closest to our location are the ones who shot us down." He replaced the pistol in its holster and proceeded to dig out the remaining survival kit packed into the base of the seat. "They were waiting for us, which means they knew our flight plan and course. I would assume that they also have the equipment to track our beacon."

With a grunt, the prince pulled free the pack from underneath the seat. Rummaging inside, he found the utility knife and began to cut away at the parachute, remembering what Jeremiah had taught him on their outdoor survival sessions (which Nunally had mistaken for a camping trip and pouted over her brother's refusal to let her participate). Realizing what he was trying to do, Villetta joined him, and in a few minutes both had fashioned from the fabric crude turban-like head coverings which shielded their faces and scarves which protected their necks and shoulders from the sun. Lelouch, aware that the adrenaline in his system might wear off soon as the reality of his near-death experience sank in, carefully sheathed the knife and slid it beneath his belt. "We need to put as much distance between ourselves and the crash site. That will give whoever is looking for us a wider radius to search. If the pilots made it the distress signal from their seats will distract our pursuers' attention and buy us some time."

Villetta nodded; she understood that there was nothing they could do for the others who had been onboard.

"We have to find transportation or a way to contact the regiment; there are local settlements and Britannian outposts along the coast between here and Tobruk. We need to reach one before we are cut off."

"Who do you think is behind this, Sire?"

"I don't know." He had several suspects in mind, but seeing how all of them were after the same thing—his life—he decided that it made no difference… for now. "Let's move. I'll examine your shoulder once we reach somewhere that offers better shelter and cover."

* * *

_Tobruk, 382nd Ashfordshire "Black Knights" Regiment Head Quarters_

Jeremiah stared at the strategic map display, hands grasping the edge of the table as he studied the probable location of the crash site and its surrounding terrain. His hair and dress was unkempt; to his right was a tall mug of black coffee stewed to near viscosity, tea judged as too weak for such an occasion. Until two hours ago he was still suffering the effects of too much citrus in his system. All that was promptly forgotten when Kewell pulled him out of bed, the rare look of panic in the steady Australian's eyes alerting him to the fact that something had gone seriously wrong; he was correct. Around him, the command center was abuzz with nervous activity as men ran to and fro receiving and sending orders and information. He ran his hand roughly through his hair—he had not been under so much stress since the day Lady Marianne died on his watch, and if the worst should come to the Prince…

"Jeremy."

He looked up to find his friend dressed not in his uniform or pilot suit but the combat fatigue of a foot soldier; he also carried a helmet and submachine gun. "Talk to me, Kewell."

"The reconnaissance platoons have already left. I'm flying out with the medics and pioneers. We'll leave in seven minutes."

"I'll go out in the Sutherland."

"No." Kewell pressed a firm hand against Jeremiah's shoulder. "You need to be here; the men need leadership at this time."

"You stay then. I'll go with the search party."

"The General left you in charge…"

"Dammit man, my master is out there! You can't tell me to sit and wait until they show his body on bloody television!"

The sound of someone clearing his throat loudly alerted the pair to the presence of another. Standing at the entrance to the command center was an officer with a mustache whose cuff and shoulder boards boasted a single star each. Jeremiah pushed off Kewell's arm and scowled at the new arrival. "Who the devil are you?"

"Brigadier general Smith-Cumming, lieutenant colonel Gottwald. I am his highness prince Alfred's aide-de-camp."

Jeremiah felt his ire rise at the elder man's emphasis on their respective ranks, but saluted none the less. "Beg your pardon, sir. As you can see we are quite busy here. Major Kewell is about to set off…"

"That won't be necessary."

The young officer blinked, wondering for a moment whether fatigue had degraded his hearing. "Excuse me?"

"Major Kewell won't be going anywhere. Recall whomever you've sent already."

The command center fell silent, all eyes turned to their leader and the much shorter man who minutes after arriving had brought all activity to a standstill. Jeremiah opened and closed his fists, popping several knuckles in this process. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Smith-Cumming, running a finger along his mustache, looked as if he'd rather not waste his breath explaining, and did so with the air of bestowing a great favor. "The rescue operation is being handled by XIV Division. In the meantime 382nd Regiment will assist XV Division in other pressing duties."

"And that would be?"

"Processing prisoners for eventual handover."

Jeremiah lost it; slamming his fist onto the table, he jabbed a finger into the chest of the superior officer. "Bollocks. You go back and tell your master to stick to his champagne and chamber maids; when I'm finished here I'll come for him."

"Prince Alfred sent me to assist 382nd Regiment after the loss of its commander out of honor and charity. Should any difficulties arise however, he has authorized me to take over command of the Regiment until that time when Prince Lelouch's fate has been determined." Withdrawing a lace handkerchief from within his jacket, the shorter man dabbed away the bits of spit that landed on his uniform. "Jeremiah Gottwald, your negligence has already led to the death of one Royal family member in the past, and while that case was forgiven, I hardly a think a repeat offence could go overlooked."

"You bastard…"

The only thing that kept him from grabbing his gun and shooting the man was the fist that connected squarely with his jaw and sent him sprawling. Tasting blood in his mouth, Jeremiah looked up to see Kewell standing where he had been a moment ago, glaring down at him before turning and bowing to the elder man. "Sir, I beg your forgiveness for that unseemly display. I assure you it will never happen again."

The man merely sneered. Jeremiah gritted his teeth, seething at Kewell's betrayal before the major continued. "… Never the less, our general left specific orders that lieutenant colonel Jeremiah is responsible for the regiment in his absence, and so long as his fate remains in doubt, the effects of the order remain and are not subject to revision."

The short man stopped stroking his mustache. "Are you questioning my authority, major?"

Kewell politely ignored him. "I recommend, sir, that for the time being you return to your unit. The incident has placed us all under tremendous strain, and your presence, while appreciated, may unsettle the rank and file who are terribly anxious about the Prince; guaranteeing your safety may become an issue."

For the first time since his arrival Smith-Cumming deigned to observe his surroundings, and found himself the focal point of many dark looks from those present, a situation which did not put him at ease; he adjusted his collar and turned to leave. "Insubordination, threatening a superior officer, I'll have the lot of you court-martialed for this."

When the dour man had gone, Kewell reached out his hand and pulled his friend to his feet. "No need to thank me, the pleasure was mine."

Still smarting from the jab he had just received, Jeremiah managed to grin. "Good acting there, I was convinced that you'd gone turncoat and switched sides."

"I considered it, but the habit of covering after your arse kicked in first."

Jeremiah rubbed his jaw. "I'm going to get your for this, you know."

Kewell shrugged. "You're welcome, but first, we've got work to do."

* * *

An hour after they had set off, the sound of a distant explosion from the rear startled the trekking duo who turned around to see a plume of smoke rise from the direction of where their aircraft had crashed. The resounding rumble was followed by a series of low, heavy staccatos. Knowing that they had no time to waste, the pair marched even faster, confining their path to the rugged coastline where nooks, crannies, and tidal caves offered good concealment should the need to hide arise while minimizing risk of leaving a trail.

Five hours later, overtaken by fatigue, the two paused to rest and refill their canteens, the miniature filters from their survival packs producing a clear and drinkable—if oddly flavored—water-like product. Half an hour's rest later they were on their way once more as the temperature began to drop to a more bearable level. They continued even after nightfall, navigating the difficult terrain with the help of a full moon, hugging the cliffs and listening carefully for voices or the sound of engines; by the time they stopped it was close to midnight. Completely spent after more than ten hours of marching, Lelouch agreed to let Villetta take the first watch after repeating the order that she should wake him in three hours.

Using his backpack as a pillow, Lelouch stretched his aching body out on a soft patch of sand, his pistol placed inches away from his hand. With the sound of the waves behind him, he slept the dreamless sleep of the dead.

* * *

_To be Continued_

_Author's Notes: And so Lelouch's troubles continue. Originally, his little adventure following the plane crash was supposed to be wrapped up after one (this) chapter, but I've decided to split it into two when I realized there was too much to cover. I also did not want to have readers wait for more than a month. This chapter brings back Euphemia and Nunally after a long absence, which shows from my rusty handling of the two compared to Jeremiah and Kewell, whom I've become comfortable at writing after much practice._

_Thanks to everyone who left me such wonderful feedback. Your encouragement makes me try harder to catch up to several of the authors on my favorites list; they are the true masters. Couple of notes: CC, Suzaku and Kallen will join the story eventually. The story will eventually move to Japan. As for whether I'm shooting for a Villetta-Lulu pairing... I don't know, honestly. For those of you who may be interested, I wrote a comedy starring Schneizel and Lulu in order to remind myself to not take my writing too seriously. The title is "Code Geass Funnies." Until next time._


	12. Return of the King

_**XII. Return of the King**_

_""What one must remember is that back then, the class lines which define Britannia also manifested themselves in her armed forces. The officer was viewed as a gentleman, and a commission in the army was considered a professional career with an esteemed place in society. The common soldier was treated with far less charity, however, and his aristocratic officer generally viewed him as such—an inferior creature to be commanded but not worthy of associating with outside the strictures of the camp; he dined in a separate mess and communed with his fellow officers in a club exclusive to their rank…_

_Both officer and enlisted man were poorly compensated. An officer's social obligations—the functions he was required to attend, the wardrobe he needed to maintain—rose with his rank, and a major could rarely afford to pay out of his salary the upkeep for the lifestyle necessitated by his office. This further placed the officer rank out of reach for the majority of Britannians, in that only the privileged classes such as nobles, landed gentry, and those who could afford the expenses that a commission entailed sent their sons (and in rare instances daughters) to become officers… Other than a mean allowance that barely covered living expenses, a first lieutenant's pay was 22,700 pounds per annum, a private 8400 pounds, with fifteen percent additional pay if he was deployed to war. _

_A footman working at a squire's country estate made an even thirteen grand, so for the majority of destitute and struggling families, it was far more desirable—if an opening was available and if the proper letters of recommendation could be obtained—to hire their children out to wealthy households as domestic help rather than enlistment. Ashfordshire's decline in 2010 was thus caused by the departure of the leading family of the county, who took with them not just the livelihoods of technicians, researchers, and factory workers but also that of menservants, maids, and other household staff. _

_The significance of Prince Lelouch's actions must then be placed within these historic circumstances. Upon his arrival, when he learned that the regiment's shortage of pilots was due to the lack of knights, the prince assembled the candidates—all trained and qualified but for the lack of a title—on the drilling field and knighted everyone there and then. He told us he believed that men are not born as but become gentlemen, and now was our chance to prove him right. _

_Today we know that it was by the prince's petition that a regiment was raised in Ashfordshire. To we who struggled for years under a selective and punitive recession, the prince represented hope; he gave us the opportunity to rise from our misery and we answered his call. A leader deals in hope, and the hope he brought nourished our desire for glory. Every man who came under his spell became a soldier—every man understood the confidence which the prince vested in him, and each strove to answer that confidence with his utmost. And when the odds were impossible; when common sense and all objective reason forecasted doom and disaster, none would lose heart, because so long as the Black Prince was leading us all believed that we would surely prevail…"_

_First Sergeant James Le Feuvre, knightmare company, 2nd Battalion, 382nd Ashfordshire Regiment._

_Sixty Minutes with Diethard Reid: Class and Modern Military Reform, June 15, 2040."_

_

* * *

_

Cornelia stood with her arms crossed inside a dark control room carved from the bedrock deep beneath the castle at Gibraltar, her somber expression dimly lit by a number of monitors as she observed the proceedings in the room next door through the large two way mirror. There, a senior commander from the Spanish army was hung from the ceiling by his ankles, recently captured during Cornelia's surprise attack—a large scale prisoner snatch disguised as a drive towards the port city of Algeciras. Her action was met with mixed reviews from back home; lauded as heroic by those hungering for war and reckless by the rest, including her second eldest brother. None of their opinions registered with the princess however, for her mind had been filled with a singular purpose since the assassination attempt took place; the return of her younger brother. "Again."

A Britannian soldier inside the interrogation chamber flipped a lever on the wall, releasing the chain which suspended its victim and plunged him into a hole in the ground filled with icy water. Twenty seconds of writhing and thrashing later the soldier reversed the switch and metallic gears grated as the man was lifted from the pool, his skin turned a shade of blue and body shaking as overworked lungs struggled to draw in oxygen. An interpreter stood close to the victim's face and repeated the question to which the commander replied in a stuttering voice that belied his desperation. The interpreter shook his head and turned towards the mirror and his superiors. "He says he doesn't know the prince's whereabouts."

"Again."

Guilford, who had been viewing the process from behind Cornelia, averted his eyes from the gruesome spectacle. His concern for his master had grown over the past few days; although she was not known for her compassion, Princess Cornelia had always regarded interrogation by torture with distaste and left the unpleasant but important task to the experts. He had seen her show contempt for her enemies but never hatred on such a personal level, especially when that hatred may well be misdirected. After the hapless man was raised from the water for the fifth time he finally decided to voice his misgiving. "My lady, perhaps he is telling the truth."

She waited until the interpreter shook his head again. "The cattle prod."

"My lady!"

"… And if that doesn't work, use coals." The princess glanced back over her shoulder, the cold fury in her eyes causing a chill to run down the bespectacled knight's spine. "Guilford, do you have some input on this matter?"

The young knight swallowed and nearly took a step backwards until he felt a heavy hand placed on his shoulder; it was Darlton, the elder knight who had served Cornelia the longest and knew her best. "Princess, with North Africa already in our hands the Europeans risk much and stand to gain little with such tricks. Nor is it in their character to do so."

Cornelia turned around slowly, the simmering wrath beneath her violet irises strong enough to cause any lesser man or woman to wilt or weep, but the veteran stood firm. "What are you suggesting?"

Darlton's voice lowered in spite of the fact that no one else was in the sound-proofed room. "…Those who wish the prince harm do not necessarily wear enemy uniforms."

A heavy silence ensued. After a minute, the princess spoke into the microphone which led next door. "Let him down; see to it that he lives, then put him back in the cell with the others."

She turned back to her subordinates and Guilford breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that she had regained her familiar expression; in command of her emotions despite the worry inside. "Keep talking with the Europeans. Remind them we're holding hundreds of theirs; if they have my brother they will return him."

"And if they don't have him?"

"Then they better hope we find him… soon."

* * *

Lelouch awoke when a hand gently shook him on the shoulder. Thin layers of parachute silk slid off his chest as he sat up drowsily, his attention immediately drawn to the harsh whistling from the wind outside the cave they had taken refuge in. He glanced at his watch and frowned; he had slept three hours past his turn to take the watch. "I told you to wake me at 2:00."

Villetta knelt by his side with her head bowed. "My apologies sire. I dozed off."

It was clearly a lie; he was worn out after two days of marching and she deliberately gave him more time to rest despite being close to exhaustion herself. "… Get some sleep. We'll delay our start today until this dust storm dies down a little."

The pair set off hours later with the winds still strong. After four days of walking Lelouch had come to the conclusion that it was both safer and less physically taxing to move by night, and decided that they should rest more often during daytime in order to conserve energy. Body still aching from the previous day's exertion, the prince shouldered his small pack and headed westwards with Villetta close behind, picking up the pace when the sun began to dip and the air turned cooler.

* * *

Jeremiah tapped his finger against his shoulder impatiently as his vehicle rolled along at a careful pace far below its normal speed; for the past two days a dust storm had grounded all flights over a large swathe of northern Libiya, compelling him to temporarily suspend search efforts and make his way to the crash site by land. In the backseat, Diethard Reid was busy fitting a filter over his camera, having hitched a ride (and nearly getting run down for his efforts) just as the column was heading out of base. The officer checked the time and cursed aloud, his eyes seeking out the red tail lights of the vehicle ahead through the swirling sands that lashed against the windshield. Thirty minutes later the column arrived at its destination when a soldier with a fluorescent baton guided the vehicle to a stop. Alighting from the transport, Jeremiah was dismayed to see the site filled with bundled up camera crews and huddled journalists. He turned to Diethard, who followed behind carrying his own camera. "It looks as though your colleagues beat you to the punch."

The pony-tailed reporter reached up to adjust his goggles. "Most of them are staying at the hotels in Tripoli; from there it's a shorter and much easier trip than the one we just made."

To keep out the dust, Jeremiah donned the ubiquitous infantry face mask as the soldiers under his command fanned out to clear the scene. The weight in his chest grew heavier with every step he took towards the remains of the transport; there was nothing left of the wings and fuselage except large and medium sized chunks of debris. The destruction wrought by the missile had been complete.

_Too complete, perhaps._

"Odd," remarked Diethard as he walked up beside the officer and took in the scene. "I've covered a few plane crashes in my career but none have come close to this in terms of damage."

"I suppose none of them were shot down."

"True, but nor was this an ordinary civilian liner. Military transports are built to be more durable against attacks."

Jeremiah remained silent as he cast a glance towards the bagged remains of the pilots laid out beneath a tent that threatened to be carried off by the storm. They had been discovered near their ejected seats, which in turn were found near the epicenter of the crash in more or less one piece despite suffering severe fire damage; presumably, the pilots burned to death after their seats failed to launch fast or far enough away from impact. "Poor bastards…"

The lieutenant colonel frowned as he took in the wind-swept scene—there was no way to tell whether the prince and Villetta perished as well before a forensics team could arrive to sift through the bits and pieces for DNA samples, a task made just about impossible by the ravaging dust storm. Squatting down, he began to examine one of the seats and soon noticed that aside from the twists and deformations which resulted from the burning there were a number of small holes that appeared out of place. After leaning in for a closer look, he summoned one of his subordinates for a second opinion then finally yelled for the journalist, who came jogging over in a huff. Jeremiah directed Diethard's attention to the holes, which were roughly the width of a man's thumb.

"What sort of missile shoots bullets as well?"

* * *

At close to midnight, with the storm beyond them, Lelouch and Villetta arrived at a village by the ocean that had evidently been abandoned for some time. Finding few items of use except for a few mattresses and ill fitting articles of clothing, the two were about to settle down for the night when the sound of an motor engine was heard approaching.

Taking cover within a cottage, Villetta looked out and saw a single headlight come over the hill and towards the village—a motorcycle. The vehicle stopped close to the perimeter of the ring of houses and in the moonlight she made out the silhouettes of two dismounting riders; Britannian soldiers, the other whom had been riding in a sidecar, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Wait." A quick hand stopped her from rising. Lelouch peered over the windowsill as the two soldiers began walking through the houses one by one. "Do we inventory rigs like that?"

She looked again, brows knitting as she did so. "I'm not sure; it could be a special purchase by a different unit..."

At that moment, one of the midnight visitors stepped out from a house about fifty yards away and called out to his colleague. "Avez-vous trouvé?"

"Non."

Lelouch and Villetta looked at each other, both acknowledging the changed situation in an instant.

Several minutes later, the two soldiers—their guard down after yet another search turned up empty—walked past the remnants of a walled off garden when suddenly a pop and hissing sound was heard and two flare sticks were thrust into their faces from around the corner. The bright light overloaded the image intensifying goggles they were wearing and sent the pair recoiling from temporary blindness. Stepping out from behind a section of the wall, Lelouch aimed and shot both flailing men twice in the back. Approaching the motionless bodies cautiously, he placed another round into the torso of each for precaution before kicking away the rifles lying on the ground. "Clear."

Villetta emerged from behind the corner and proceeded to stamp out the dropped flares. She looked at the bodies on the ground. "Who are these people?"

"I'm not sure, but we should leave before…"

In the next moment Lelouch was sprawled on the ground with his face pressed against the dirt. Grabbed by the back of his collar and flipped over violently, he found himself pinned under and staring up at his assailant, whose trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth onto the prince's cheek as his hand seized around his throat. "Déverminage enfer!"

"My lord!" Villetta grabbed and raised one of the assault rifles to her shoulder, but her injury made aiming difficult and her finger remained taut on the trigger, paralyzed into indecision as the mortal struggle unfolded.

Unable to swallow or breathe, Lelouch clawed at the man's vise-like grip with his nails. Even with one arm hanging uselessly to the side, the strength in the soldier's single hand was still too much for him to pry away. Blood roaring in his ears and lungs screaming for air, he reached down to his waist, fumbling fingers finding and withdrawing a flare stick. With the last ounce of his strength, Lelouch ignited the flare by slamming the end of the tube into the ground and jammed the lit end into his assailant's face, averting his eyes from the blinding glare as he did so. The soldier roared in pain and Lelouch rolled away, gasping and hacking as his nostrils caught the pungent scent of burnt flesh. Villetta did not miss her opportunity and squeezed a three round burst through the man's chest; he collapsed forward and did not rise again.

She was immediately by Lelouch's side, supporting him as he sat up and slowly regained his breath and composure. He placed a shaking hand gingerly around his neck, feeling the welts there that were certain to bruise; it was as close to death as the young prince had experienced and the first time he took a life with his own hands. "… Let's go."

* * *

"I'm telling you, the scoundrels who shot down the prince are still out there. They arrived at the site, killed the pilots, and then blew everything to smithereens in order to make it look like they died from the crash."

Kewell dragged his fingers through his hair as he studied the images Jeremiah brought back through bloodshot eyes. "Half of our men have been out combing the desert between here and the crash site for the past four days. If a band of unidentified marauders were roaming about we would have certainly discovered them… unless they were disguised as Britannian soldiers."

Jeremiah shut his eyes as an even worse case scenario came to mind. "Or if they are Britannian soldiers."

The two men fell silent, the usually immaculate command center around them littered with foam coffee cups and ashtrays filled with cigarette stubs that reflected the bleak atmosphere. Both men knew that time was against them, the chances of their recovering their master and friend lessened with every hour that passed. Adding frustration to their stress was the unwillingness to send aid by the two other Britannian commanders in the theater, whose much larger forces could easily multiply the radius and thoroughness of the search effort. Jeremiah's repeated demands for an audience with both royals had been dismissed, and Kewell's lettered protests to Army High Command were met with ambiguous directives which ultimately left the decision to ranking local officers. Instead, the two princes had busied themselves in the past few days making preparations for the march to uncontested Cairo, the political and symbolic capital of the NAL, and both Jeremiah and Kewell were once again made aware of how thin and fickle support for their master was in high places back home.

At that moment an enlisted man burst into the room, nearly tripping as he rounded the corner at the doorway. Jeremiah recognized him as one of those under his command who had perimeter watch and waited for the excited soldier's explanation for leaving his post. "Well?"

The young private struggled for several seconds and then choked out his reply before he finished catching his breath. "The prince has returned!"

Hunched forms slumped over from lack of sleep straightened; tired eyes snapped open, every chair in the command center swung around towards the news bearer. Soon there was a stampede down the stairs and elevator with both senior officers right in the thick of the exodus as the noise from outside grew more audible. Once outside they saw that news had spread like wildfire and it seemed as if every soldier and officer in the regiment was sprinting from all across the base towards the front gates of Tobruk, where a raucous crowd had gathered and continued to grow.

In the midst of the hurrahs and hails and name chants and foot stamps and applause and service caps hurled into the air, Jeremiah elbowed his way through the mass of bodies (the euphoria and pandemonium was such that an order to give way could not be heard, and would not have been heeded in any case) until he reached the front of the human wall, where he saw his prince on a motorcycle, a white silken scarf tucked around his neck, surrounded by his joyful followers with a ragged-looking but smiling Villetta sitting in the sidecar. Tears broke from his eyes and he dropped to one knee and bowed in homage to his liege. "Welcome back, your highness."

Lelouch dismounted from the bike and smiled at his faithful servant. "Sorry for being late."

He raised his fist towards the sky, sending the thousands gathered into even greater uproar as they cheered their leader's triumphal return as though he defied death itself. A hundred feet away, Diethard had climbed onto the back of a Sutherland in order to capture footage of the scene on his camera. A surge of emotion which he vaguely identified as warm-blooded patriotism, mob adoration, and feverish hero-worship seized him by the soul as tears streamed down the side of his face. His heart soared like a man with scales removed from his eyes; after years of producing scripted talk shows and bland prescreened news he felt he had finally found the story of his career.

Seven hours later—after night fall and an afternoon spent fending off frenzied journalists who congregated at Tobruk after Diethard broke the good news to an ecstatic empire—Jeremiah walked into the top floor of the mobile base looking for a drink to relax his strained nerves. Instead he found his master out of bed, sitting on the sofa in the small lounge with a plate of sliced lemons, a bottle and tall glass of mineral water and a bucket of ice on the table. The marks on Lelouch's neck were dressed with fresh white bandages, his body covered in an oversized wine-colored bathrobe as he examined several documents sitting in his lap. "Jeremiah, have a seat."

The knight sat down, surprised that the prince was awake after so many restless nights in the desert. The prince added three more cubes of ice to his glass. "How is Villetta?"

"Resting in the ward; Kewell is with her. Doctor says the injury is minor and will heal shortly."

Lelouch closed his eyes momentarily as he raised his glass—in spite of the physician's negative diagnosis it was still somewhat uncomfortable to swallow. He placed one of the documents on the table and slid it towards his adjutant. "Have a look at this."

Jeremiah sat forward and began to study the contents. "70 million pounds from an account in the Bank of Britannia to… Leikhasse Handel & Co?"

"A private Swiss Banker, the transfer was made sixteen days ago." The prince tapped his finger against the series of zeroes printed near the bottom of the sheet. "Both accounts are codenamed and numbered, but the order originated from a branch in the Capital favored by nobles and the latter apparently belongs to a private military firm headquartered in Switzerland."

"And the men who attacked you spoke French."

"Could be a coincidence; still, if I were to chase down the numbers I wouldn't be surprised if they were linked to names in the family."

A deep-seated resentment began to boil within Jeremiah's chest. "How did you come across these, sire?"

Lelouch sank back into the cushions as he studied the logo of the company which had apparently been contracted to kill him. "A lieutenant from Signals, he said he received it from a member of the international media who arrived this afternoon and was asked to pass it on to me."

Jeremiah stood up. "I'll have the rosters checked right away."

"Don't bother, if this gift is from the EU—and I believe it is—then we won't find anything; they're naive, but not incompetent."

The officer slowly sat down again, elbow resting against one knee and chin in hand as he thought hard about the matter. "But why would the Europeans help us?"

"Perhaps to avoid war by directing us to the real culprits."

"Why us though? Why not go public with this evidence?"

"Because by now, no one in Britannia would trust a word from the EU… except maybe us." Lelouch turned on the television, where the news showed demonstrators joined by crowds bearing images and banners celebrating the Black Prince's return. "Also, if I were to publicly accuse members of the royal family—fellow commanders in the army, even—of plotting against my life at this crucial juncture, the empire would be thrown into bedlam and our will to enter war against Europe would be completely undermined."

"This is a trick then, the EU's attempt to divide and weaken us before war breaks out."

"No. The documents are credible, even though the gift comes with an ulterior motive." Lelouch smiled; having just survived one of the closest ordeals in his life, the youth found in himself the ability to find humor in the irony, that his enemies proved themselves more reliable and transparent than his allies.

Jeremiah watched the prince take another long sip of mineral water before asking the critical question. "What shall we do?"

"Nothing."

"Sire?"

Lelouch sighed and set the glass on the table. "If we act now it will be our word against theirs; secret tips from the hated Europeans, however true, will not aid our cause in court or in the eyes of the public."

Faced with the prince's cool countenance, a look of anger and dismay passed over the elder man's face. "Are we to swallow this offense then? Let the backstabbers get away with it?"

"Only for now." Lelouch lifted his chin and looked towards the ceiling as his eyelids grew heavy. "We'll sit on this for a little longer, and when this business in Africa is finished—when I return and consolidate my gains and when Alfred and Geoffrey have lost all credibility, then we shall settle accounts."

One week later, as mistrust and enmity continued to mount across the Atlantic and with no relief in sight, the Holy Britannian Empire declared war on the EU.

* * *

_To be Continued_

_Author's Notes: Three weeks instead of my stated two, but this is an improvement, no? Happy Fourth of July to those in the United States! A welcome to the dozen or so new readers and a sincere thanks to the many who have stuck by this tortoise writer, especially when there are far more diligent authors out there. If anyone happens to read French I beg your pardon. If anyone is interested in what the three phrases say Google ought to turn up translations. This chapter concludes Lelouch's personal escapade and the next marks the beginning of the end of his run in the desert. In spite of the last line, the story's focus will eventually shift from war towards the eminent intrigue of society, school, and other fun things._

_I have started taking a summer course and will travel to Switzerland and Munich in mid July, but hope that won't affect my pace (hah!) too much. Also, to those who have been reviewing: If you would note your gender and age I'd be much obliged. I'm guessing most of my readers are young males but hope to write a story that can appeal to both sides (one reason why the original show is so great). Thanks for reading, until next time._


	13. The Collapse

_**XIII: The Collapse**_

_""Members of Parliament, countrymen, citizens of Europe and the free world,_

_Yesterday, On the morning of November 8, the Britannian Empire, pursuing its course of world conquest, declared war against the European Union, this after she initiated military hostilities in Spain, resulting in great loss of life and numbers taken into captivity, many of whom have not been returned._

_The long expected has thus come to pass. The forces of repression who seek to enslave the world are now moving toward our continent. Never before has humanity faced a greater challenge to life, liberty, and civilization. _

_To confront this threat, the efforts of all who cherish freedom must be united so that the forces of righteousness may prevail over the agents of tyranny. The eyes of the world are upon us. The prayers and hopes of the occupied and oppressed are with us. We must—and we shall—prevail._

_I therefore request that Parliament recognize the state of war between the Union and  
the Britannian Empire."_

_EU President Maxine Fournier_

_Address to the European Parliament, November 9, 2016."_

_

* * *

_

The senior officers of the Ashfordshire Regiment gathered in front of the large television in their commander's living room, their breakfasts completely forgotten as they sat forward in their seats. On screen, an anchorman with silvering hair looked off stage seeking guidance, his harried body language indicative of the state of confusion inside the studio. Finally, a stage assistant ran up to and handed several loose sheets of documents to the veteran reporter, who immediately paled in color as he glanced over the contents. After taking a moment to dab away perspiration with a handkerchief, the man finally turned back to the audience and began to make his report.

_"Good evening. Two hours ago, Britannian forces in North Africa under Prince Geoffrey and Alfred came under attack from European forces. The Princes and their commands were en route to Cairo for the scheduled Victory in Africa parade and had reached the outskirts of Alexandria when the battle took place. Details are still coming in, but initial reports indicate that XIV and XV Divisions suffered heavy losses and are in retreat. The timing of the attack—coming less than ten minutes after the European declaration of war—has led Royal Court officials to condemn the act as 'a deliberate and craven sneak attack.'_

_We have just received some aerial footage of from our Swiss affiliates who were on scene when the attack occurred. We'll play that for you now."_

The four watched the catastrophe unfold from the vantage point of the circling news helicopter. The Britannian column, stretched out for tens of kilometers along the lone winding highway, was cut into ribbons by the pre-concealed enemy, isolated into pockets, and soon fell into disarray. The two mobile bases, richly decked out in ceremonial colors, made the most obvious targets and quickly came under fire. Organized resistance appeared to disintegrate quickly after that as hapless fragments of Britannian forces seemed to run into a shattering hail of enemy fire no matter which direction they tried to attack or flee towards, and it was not long before the site of slaughter became obscured in the rising smoke of burning vehicles and knightmare frames. "Dear God…"

Lelouch switched off the television and stood up; he had seen enough, and letting his subordinates see more would only be counterproductive. "Raise the regiment to Redcon-1. Cancel all leaves and passes. Recall every man off duty, and I do mean everyone. When you've finished carrying out your orders report to the command center, dismissed."

The prince remained behind after his officers vacated the room, standing with his hands in his pockets as he looked out the window of his three-storied residence over the rest of the base. Soon he heard the blare of the alarm siren crescendo, and was privately pleased with how quickly his troops responded to the new threat level. He watched as a squad of four Sutherlands rumbled towards their assembly point before he closed his eyes and shook his head.

"… Too soon."

Closing the door softly behind him, he turned and walked towards the stairs.

* * *

"Bring us up to date, Major."

The female officer took a deep breath and began. "Through intercepting enemy and friendly radio traffic, satellite reports, as well as European media, the Defence Intelligence Staff and MI6 have both arrived at the conclusion that for all military intents and purposes, XIV and XV Divisions have ceased to exist."

The briefing room fell silent as each person absorbed the devastating turn of events in their own way. In the center of the table, the strategic map showed a thick blue column with an arrowhead driving westward along the coast as scattered bricks of red lay around, before, and disappeared as they fell beneath the advancing column. Kewell's hand swept went into his well kept hair. "… I can't remember the last time a catastrophe of this scale took place."

"Not in our life times," Remarked Jeremiah.

"… Casualty estimates range from six to eleven thousand, including over two-thirds of the divisions' vehicles lost and nearly all of their knightmares. We anticipate those survivors with motor transport to reach our position eventually, but for the others…"

Lelouch tapped his finger slowly against the edge of the table as he continued to look at the map. "What of the two Generals?"

"They escaped; their personal guards managed to pierce the enemy cordon and allow them to reach a civilian airstrip. Their aircraft is due to land in Casablanca shortly."

Jeremiah snorted contemptuously. "So they deserted their commands and fled across the entire African continent. I wonder what sort of face his Majesty will make when he is made aware of this."

"That will be the least of our concerns." Kewell turned back to Villetta. "Who are we up against?"

Tapping the keyboard of her notebook several times, the image projected by the overhead display changed into two side by side orders of battle. "Panzergrenadier Division Friderich and 6th Panzer Division. The EU expedition force is commanded by Field Marshall Karl von Witzleben."

"I know that name," Jeremiah tilted his head back and exhaled a heavy sigh. "Prussians, and here I was hoping that we would face Italians, or at least the French."

"No such luck I'm afraid, and it gets worse." The image changed to that of a photo of a foreign KMF laid on top of a design schematic. "Panzer Hummel A2, Armored Bumblebee—Europe's new toy. Weighs 50 percent more than our Sutherland but boasts comparable speed and just a slightly slower turn rate. Two 27mm cannons in the torso and two 76mm cannons in the arms, giving it an 8 to 1 firepower superiority against our standard KMF. Heavily reinforced legs and base make for a very stable gun platform, and we have seen it engage targets out to 1500 meters."

"Bloody murder… any weaknesses?"

"Few, unfortunately; the Hummel's thick armor gives it excellent protection to the fronts and sides. The places where our 25mm rifles have the best chance of penetrating are the joints and the armored cockpit from the rear, and even then only at close range; 300 meters or less."

"Estimate of enemy strength?"

"36,000 strong; 340 to 400 KMFs, depending on how much damage they incurred from today's action."

"Our strength?"

"53 Sutherlands."

The room returned to silence. A minute later, a knock was heard and the door to the main command room slid open, light flooding in as a young soldier entered and saluted. "My Lord, the Admiralty reports that the Home Fleet has encountered heavy enemy submarine activity off the Eastern seaboards. The Mediterranean Fleet is presently engaged and has suffered moderate losses. The Air Force reports that it has achieved parity in the North African theater but will not be able to aid us on the ground."

"I see. What word from General Cornelia?"

"The General states that she cannot send reinforcements due to pressure from Spanish forces. She deman… suggests that we give up Tobruk and withdraw westwards until reinforcements arrive from the mainland."

"Thank you. That will be all, sergeant."

When the soldier had left the room, the prince returned his gaze to the table and those sitting around it. "Well gentlemen, we are outnumbered 9 to 1 in men and 7 to 1 in machines. Our Sutherland is outclassed by any measure, our air force is preoccupied, and reinforcements will be delayed. I would hear your opinions on our course of action."

Jeremiah went first. "Sire, giving up everything we've gained in the past five months is unthinkable. We should hold our ground. If we absorb the remnants of XIV an XV Divisions we should be able to withstand a siege until reinforcements arrive."

Kewell shook his head adamantly. "I disagree. Even with the survivors—assuming any of them reach us safely—we simply won't have the numbers to hold a fortress of this size." He looked to his friend, who for once did not sour at the difference in opinion. "What we do have is ground to give; the enemy has 900 kilometers to traverse over a single highway. That gives us enough time to render Tobruk unusable and displace westward to a more defensible position."

Lelouch gave a light nod. "Major Villetta?"

The only female officer present appeared to ponder the issue before she made her reply. "I am with Major Kewell—we do not possess enough men and materiel to conduct a worthwhile static defense. I fear, however, that a delaying action may be futile if the Europeans reform and rearm the NAL units we disbanded as they reclaim lost territory. The local disparity of forces will grow even larger; we may not be able to hold Area 8."

The seconds on the clock ticked by as all eyes turned towards the young man sitting at the head of the table, whose head was bowed deep in thought. Villetta exchanged a worry look with Kewell, who turned towards Jeremiah only to find the eldest officer's expression as helpless as his own. After what seemed like an hour had passed, Lelouch straightened in his seat and placed his hands against the table.

"Gentlemen, there is nothing we can do on our own to reverse this tide… we shall need the enemy to oblige us."

Not waiting for any questions, he reached out and touched a button on the map, causing the graphic to zoom onto the regiment's present location. "Jeremiah, I want you to take the knightmare company from your battalion and move with all haste to meet the advancing Germans."

In his six years of service the proud knight had never once questioned Lelouch's decisions, but he found his faith tested now at the assignment of what appeared to be a suicide mission. "What will you have me do, Sire?

"Lose."

"I beg your pardon?"

The black prince traced a path of red from Tobruk Eastwards, stopping two grid points in front of the Blue arrowhead. "I want you to engage, retreat, and repeat. Give the enemy the impression of faltering resistance and feed their hubris. Harass them by night, target their outposts, generators, and water carriers, frustrate them. Remain in constant contact so that you may draw their armor ahead and away from their main body. Above all save your forces; we'll need every last Sutherland for the second phase."

Lelouch then zoomed the strategic map back out, and drew another path, this time a shallow arc that dipped from the coastline down towards the continent and back up, ending several grids west of Alexandria. "Kewell, once the tail of the German column has advanced past Matruh, you and Villetta will each take a reinforced rifle company and insert by air into the vicinity of El-Alamein and set up a blocking position. Your job will be to prevent the break out of retreating German forces for as long as you can."

The major stared at his commander as though he had sprouted a second head. "I'm afraid I do not comprehend, my lord."

Lelouch explained the rest of his plan. When he was finished, Kewell looked upon his prince with a new light of amazement in his eyes. "Permission to speak freely, sire?"

"You may."

"This is the most inconceivable, outrageous battle plan I have ever heard of."

"Recklessness and genius is differentiated only by success." And though he himself felt the roof of his mouth dry with apprehension, Lelouch also experienced the familiar course of adrenaline in his veins and smiled in return. "Villetta, take a small task force as far as Sidi Barrani and requisition every functioning and reparable knightmare that comes our way. Return in thirty-six hours regardless of the results."

"If their pilots refuse to hand them over?"

"I'm sure you'll come up with a way to persuade them." Villetta smiled; she understood her commander's meaning perfectly. "You all have your orders. There isn't much time so I suggest you make the best of it."

* * *

Kewell sat hunched over his desk, pen in hand when he heard the door to his bedroom open. "Can't be bothered to knock, can you?"

"Nope." Jeremiah strolled in, already in his pilot suit. "I've just come to check on you before I head off in case you need anything."

"I'll be fine. In fact I imagine I'll sleep terrifically tonight without your snor… have you been smoking again?"

The major turned around in his chair as he sniffed the air and Jeremiah grinned as he produced two fat cigars. "Just a puff to get the old gears turning. Here's your share, for our victory smoke when we're through with the Huns."

"You are incurable. What makes you think you'll even make it past phase one?"

"Aside from my peerless piloting skills? I'm of Bavarian descent, maybe they'll mistake me for an ally."

Kewell rolled his eyes and turned back to his desk while pointedly ignoring the tobacco which Jeremiah had tossed next to him.

"What are you writing over there?"

"My will, you twit."

"Really?" The elder man's eyes widened a bit. "May I have your thoroughbreds?"

"No."

"You can have my collection of Italian sports cars."

Kewell made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat as he crossed out a spelling mistake. "You can't add me to your will because you haven't even drafted one."

"That's because I won't need one, and don't plan on jinxing myself either." With a chuckle and a few quick steps, Jeremiah stole up behind the younger officer and snatched away the document. "Let's see, to St. George's Secondary School, my personal library, to my sister, three-quarters of my savings and my horses, to the city of Savannah, my collection of art. I say, you haven't got many friends besides me have you?"

"I do, I've just been hiding them from you."

"Wait now, there's more. To the siblings of Villetta Nu, my wardrobe and one-quarter of my savings for their betterment and education…" Jeremiah paused and glanced at his friend, who had developed a sudden keen interest in one of the masts of his bed. "Soresi?"

"… She's too proud to take charity from anyone. It's the only way I can get her to accept something."

Jeremiah blinked, then broke into a wide grin as he approached and laid his hand on Kewell's shoulder. "My friend, as much respect as I have for your intellectual capacity and noble spirit, the way you're going about this is simply daft. You want to help her, perhaps even impress her, but the only way she will learn about this gift of yours is when you're pushing up daisies, and what a pleasant surprise that will be."

And as much as he wished to deny it, the younger officer saw the point his dumber friend was making. "What would you recommend then?"

Jeremiah feigned dismay at his friend's question. "Ever considered roses, puppies, a box of truffles? By Jove, what morbid, joyless frontier wasteland were you raised in? Ah, I forget, you're from Australia."

Kewell hurled his pen holder at him, but Jeremiah had already zipped out the door.

* * *

Lelouch looked at the phone in his hand. The press of a button would connect him to Nunally and Euphemia in an instant, and yet he hesitated. He wondered whether it would be wise to hear their voices now, to listen to their pleas and entreaties for him to leave; that the danger was too great, that he had done enough and there was no shame in leaving and returning to fight another day. He wavered—they were his dearest weakness and he did not trust his own voice to be steady or his resolve to be steadfast by his decision.

He would certainly not lie to them.

The prince replaced the phone in its cradle. Turning to his notebook, he began to compose two letters, setting them to be delivered electronically in seven days in the absence of a cancel order. He foresaw that the coming battle would be bitter and over quickly, one way or the other. When he was finished, he turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and soon settled down to a fitful sleep.

* * *

_Three days later_

The first orange light of day broke over the horizon and shone onto the hilly terrain of the North African desert. A Longbow tank, hull down inside a defilade and covered overhead by a tarp and a ton of yellow sand pointed the muzzle of its menacing gun towards the East. Squinting slightly, Lelouch adjusted the contrast of the viewer and rotated the periscope around, counting the barely visible mounds aligned in a curve, each spaced 100 meters apart, twenty-four in all. A look to the tactical display showed an equal number of heavy-mortar carriers positioned a kilometer to the rear, and a dozen light attack helicopters airborne ten kilometers ahead, searching, waiting.

Jeremiah's voice crackled over the headset. "Orange force is in position. Broke contact with enemy vanguard thirty minutes ago; 300 plus units heading on course."

"Understood, Orange lead. Standby for orders."

"Griffon lead here. Enemy vanguard spotted fifteen kilometers out, panzers no infantry. Griffon squad is engaging."

"Understood. Reel them in, Griffon lead."

Lelouch followed the bright afterburners of the missiles as they sped up and away from the hovering helicopters before diving down at an unseen foe. He narrowed his eyes when he saw a veritable rain of tracers erupt towards the sky, exploding well over half of the missiles before they reached their target. Several minutes later, the tracers and explosions began to reach the helicopters and Griffon squadron-Lelouch's only armed air asset-began to pull back.

"… And so it begins."

* * *

_Author's Notes: One month between updates this time. The next chapter will definitely come much quicker as I finish up my summer courses. The opening speech was heavily inspired by Allied WW2 declarations and serves as a reminder to us all that Britannia is supposed to be the bad guy in all this, but that's okay. This is the beginning of The Final Battle (because the next one will be a long ways off) and I guarantee that Lelouch will not emerge unscathed. Thanks once more to those who have read and reviewed this story, from all across the world (I apologize for offending my Italian, French, and Australian readers; Jeremiah is a narrow minded man and his opinions are not mine). Until next time._


	14. Knights Move

**XIV. Knights Move**

""_In infantry school the instructors taught how knightmare frames changed the face of war: The knightmare could swim, spin, leap, and scale buildings. The knightmare was anti-tank, anti-chopper, anti-infantry, anti-everything. They said that the only effective anti-knightmare weapon is another knightmare because all else had been rendered obsolete. The lesson was clear; numbers and variety no long counted as much, because the advent of the knightmare had once again established the battlefield as the domain of the __elite __few, just like in the days of old. _

_The school is usually right on these matters, but at this moment of peril, all that was bullshit._

_For the Prince, with his great wisdom and foresight, had found the notion of a hundred men doing all the fighting of a four thousand strong outfit rubbish. His __theory__ was simple; since modern war was decided by who could smash all of his foe's knightmares first, he wanted every man—pilot or __not__—to know how. "Anything," the prince had said as he paced before us on the marching green, "which can kill a sixty-ton tank can certainly harm an eight-ton knightmare, nor does one require a noble pedigree in order to do so." _

_Who could argue with that? So we ransacked the armories and acquainted ourselves with all manners of 'obsolete' weapons, not a little motivated by the thought that those in charge of the military establishment would find the prince's actions—training the rank and file to square off against mounted knights—a tad unsettling. _

_Now, six months later, taking cover in a dry ditch overlooking a particularly festive corner of Africa, we put his majesty's theory to test. Private Pence, the spotter of the Spike missile team, registers the approaching targets. "Four panzers, range 2400, flanking main force west-south-west… three now; one just got brewed up."_

"_I've a clear shot, sergeant."_

_I place a hand on the young gunner's shoulder even though I could feel the clamminess in my own palms. "Steady there, Collins, two deep breaths. All teams, let targets pass 1__0__00. Engage mode direct. A team take the lead shot, B second, we'll take the trailer, fire on my command. Ready… ready… fire!"_

_To our delight, the tandem warheads find their mark and do their terrible work, and amidst our whoops and hurrahs the front of our sector begins to rain bits and pieces of panzer; score one for the common man."_

_Sir Thomas Healey, King Company, 3rd Cavalary Troop, 382nd Ashfordshire Regiment; Life Magazine, January 26, 2017."_

_

* * *

_

The Flying Puck was a respectable drinking establishment in the industrial city of Detroit that catered to blue collared workers who sought a place to wind down after work. On this evening, the patrons found their usuals tinged with a bitter aftertaste as the big screens—usually tuned in on whichever sports were in season—showed nothing but bleak news from the war: the rising toll from the deadly game between the Royal Navy and the European combined fleets, the stalemate between Princess Cornelia and the Spaniards, the disruption to commerce between the mainland and the colonies, and the Chinese Federation's determination to remain neutral and profit from her position as the major trading partner to both belligerents. The mood was especially grim in light of the recent military disaster in North Africa, and even the Emperor's promise to punish those responsible failed to improve the atmosphere much.

Worst of all, there had been no word of their idol—the boy prince who led his forces to victory after victory and escaped the very clutches of death. The latest news from days ago was that the prince was slowly retreating in front of the European advance and avoiding contact with the superior enemy; hardly uplifting news.

The pub remained three-quarters filled as the hands on the clock drew towards midnight. Just as a group of patrons was standing to leave, every television channel showing in the establishment began switching to the studio of Hi-TV. People lifted their heads from their glasses and ashtrays and looked to the big, bold letters of "Breaking News" lined across the top of the screen. The pub's noise dimmed down to a murmur, falling completely silent when the familiar image of Diethard Reid, embedded reporter with the 382nd Ashfordshire Regiment, appeared wearing a dusty helmet and Kevlar vest.

Everyone held their breath.

"_Good evening, fellow Britannians. As of twenty minutes ago, His Highness Prince Lelouch and the Black Knights have begun their counterattack against European forces..."_

And the patrons of the Flying Puck—as well as those in countless other bars, inns, and living rooms throughout Britannia and her territories—burst into resounding ovation, and from neighbors to friends to coworkers to strangers on the streets, word began to spread that their hero was back and at it again.

* * *

Over the war torn skies of North Africa, a Britannian attack helicopter jinked left and away from angry streams of tracers that curved towards it like a lunging snake. Righting itself, the aircraft let fly its remaining pair of missiles towards the source of its grievance, and the pilot and gunner had the pleasure of seeing one of the projectiles blow apart the offender before a nearby shell burst ripped their airframe with shrapnel and sent the helicopter into a spiraling descent. Within seconds Lelouch was informed through his earpiece of his regiment's latest casualty. "Griffon six is down, Griffon six is down! Griffon squad is down to four. They're dropping like flies, Sire!"

Lelouch clenched his teeth as the crippled helicopter tumbled and finally exploded in midair. "Pull them out."

"Firebase here, Sire. All batteries ready for your orders."

"Commence fire."

A minute later, Lelouch watched through the tank commander's periscope as 120mm mortars began to fall amidst the formation of panzer hummels that drew ever closer, each fireball indicating that one of the guided rounds had found its mark. These were few and far between, however, as the speed at which the European knightmare frames advanced negated a great deal of the barrage's accuracy. The gruff voice of Lelouch's gunner, who was sitting slightly below inside the cramped quarters of the Longbow tank, came through next on the intercom. "Enemy on visuals now, Sire. Range, 6000 meters."

The flick of a switch changed the prince's field of view to that of his gunner's sights, and he saw through the powerful digital sights what appeared to be an immovable gray phalanx of steel that spewed fire at every direction as it bore down on his location. The image sent his pulse racing and he wet his lips. "Here they come, gentlemen. Black King to all guns, load armor piercing."

"AP up! Range 5000."

Lelouch turned his eye briefly to the small tactical display, which depicted his own units as a single line of blue triangles, to the front of which—and closing in by the second—was a huge mess of red triangles formed into the shape of a broad spearhead. "All guns, target center of enemy formation. Squad leaders, divvy marks to avoid redundant kills."

"Range 4200, Sire. Enemy in gun range!"

"Let them closer. We need a range where their guns are ineffective but from where they can't easily retreat." The prince adjusted the dial on his view finder with his hand, and the image of the charging panzers at the forefront became more resolute and daunting. "All guns wait for my signal."

A number of high explosive shells began landing before Lelouch's line of Longbows, sending chunks of rock and dirt ricocheting off the front of the tank, prompting the gunner to look up over his shoulders at his lord and commander. "Range 3600, Sire. I think they've spotted us."

"Focus on your sights, corporal! Don't reveal our position yet."

"Aye Sire. Range 3000, Sire."

"All guns standby…"

"2400."

"Fire!"

The 140 mm electromagnetic rail gun of the Longbow fired, hurling the fin stabilized discarding sabot round forward at six times the speed of sound. Several micro seconds into flight, the shell shed its carbon fiber petals to reveal the 30 inch long tungsten penetrator. Less than two seconds later the dart-like missile, flying as straight as a laser beam, pierced the front armor of a panzer hummel, continuing into the torso, out through the cockpit, and penetrating a second panzer a hundred meters to the rear before finally tumbling off axis and fragmenting to terrific effect. The velocity and energy of the round was such that neither of the victims had the chance to eject, or were even aware that they'd been hit before they perished.

"Bullseye!"

On the tactical map, the tip of the European spearhead disappeared from the initial volley of the twenty-four tanks under Lelouch's command. Momentarily shocked, the commander of the panzer corps committed the mistake of ordering his units to a halt so that seconds later, when the second volley fired, they were stationary targets. Lelouch grinned savagely as he saw the second wave of fireballs tear through the phalanx. Soon however the European contingent began to respond as the tactical map displayed the original spear loosening and splitting into three formations. "Squad leaders, work the flanks, don't let them scatter!"

"Enemy range 2000. They're moving fast, Sire!"

"Load HEAT, fuze proximity. All guns fire at will."

"HEAT up, on the way!"

The one sided duel continued as the Britannian tanks continued to pick off the maneuvering panzer hummels from a distance, who had trouble locating the precise position of their assailants. The coordinated volleys soon descended into chaos as each tank commander did his best to prevent the mass of enemy knightmares from closing on and circling around the precariously thin firing line. When the German formation had closed to within 1500 meters, the Longbows began to come under fire. Moments after a high explosive shell landed uncomfortably close another shell glanced off the front armor of his tank, creating a deafening noise and shockwave that nearly shook the prince from his seat, prompting him to curse quietly. "Hard pounding this, we'll see who emerges master of this field. Spring the bait!"

Seconds later, the mobile base that served as the regimental headquarters drove onto the battle scene several kilometers away from Lelouch's position, its highly visible silhouette immediately catching the attention of the German panzer contingent. Remembering their earlier victory over the two Britannian divisions and eager to end the costly fight, the majority of panzers diverted their attention from Lelouch's line and turned for the mobile base, failing to consider the possibility that the fortuitous appearance of the enemy's command center was a ruse. Over the next few minutes—during which the mixed arsenal of the Black Knights decimated the distracted and vulnerable panzer hummels—the mobile base, manned by only two drivers who managed to escape at the last moment, was turned into a flaming honeycomb. When the Germans realized belatedly that enemy resistance failed to crumble or even weaken at the destruction of their leader's command platform, they finally lost taste for battle and blanketed the battlefield in smokescreen to cover their withdrawal.

It was the moment Lelouch had been waiting for. "Jeremiah, now!"

Orange force, consisting of the sum of the Ashfordshire Regiment's available knightmare strength—fifty-eight in all—emerged from its camouflaged position and dove into the fray with its intrepid commander in the lead. With the battlefield completely shrouded in smoke, Jeremiah plunged his Sutherland into the center of the enemy formation and fired his slash harkens into the cockpit of a panzer hummel before spinning and driving his tonfa into the cockpit of another, cratering the armored plating. As the first victim collapsed to inactivity and the latter ejected, the lieutenant-colonel laughed like a Barbary corsair who found himself in a cave full of treasure. "Payback time, ya' bastards! Let em' have it, lads!"

The melee assault devolved into a messy one-sided affair that largely favored the Britannians as the Sutherland pilots took advantage of their marginal superiority in speed and agility to incapacitate enemy knightmares. Hobbled by poor visibility and seized by panic from the rapid reversal in fortune, the panzers began to fire their guns blindly to drive off the infiltrating assailants, who soon withdrew, leaving the Europeans to participate alone in the massacre by friendly fire.

* * *

Towards midday, two sentries from the European expedition force seated in the shade of their vehicle were just about to tuck into an early lunch of goulash when the Unteroffiziere noticed a cloud of dust approaching on the highway. Reaching for his radio, he informed his superior officer that the panzer corps was returning as scheduled and sat back down. It had become a routine; three to four times a day over the past three days a small force of Britannian knightmares would appear to attack their outposts and reconnaissance units, always slipping away before the panzers could be assembled and brought to bear. In the interest of morale, Field Marshall Witzleben positioned the panzer corps to the front of the German column from which they could respond more readily to further harassment, also ordering the panzer commanders to pursue as far as they saw fit, just in case the yellow Brits changed their minds and decided to give battle for once.

This day, in the wee hours of morning before the sun was even up, a larger than expected contingent of Britannian knightmares attacked, showing unusual persistence in the face of overwhelming firepower before finally being forced to retreat. The panzer corps gave chase, intent on forcing the Britons into a decisive engagement and delivering a knockout blow to the scant enemy forces remaining on the continent.

The last communiqué from the panzers from over an hour ago—as frequent and unnecessary radio traffic risked eavesdropping—stated that they had caught and dealt the Britons a significant blow. The message was relayed with more enthusiasm than usual, for in spite of their crushing initial victory over the Empire, the German soldier remained wary of those who their sentimental French counterparts had nicknamed _La Régiment_ _Fantôme. _In the months leading up to their deployment, members of the expedition force had heard many of the exploits of the Black Prince_, _and despite their commanders' assurances that much of the tales surrounding the teenage prince was mere propaganda, traces of apprehension lingered in each man's mind.

And thus, assuaged by their latest victory, the sentries ate with the best appetite they've seen in the past week as they waited for the return of their comrades. A few minutes later, as the dust cloud grew and the high pitch of land spinners running on full came within hearing distance, the soldiers wondered absently why their comrades were in such a hurry. One peered up from his meal, squinting as the rising heat and sand and glaring rays from the sun combined to obscure the fast approaching knightmares...

Spilling the contents of his lunch onto the ground, the soldier fumbled with his radio before smashing the right button and shouting into the receiver. "Achtung! Die Briten griefen an!"

A rifle grenade from Jeremiah's Sutherland blew up the patrol vehicle along with its nearby occupants, and the knightmares of the 382nd regiment, having achieved surprise, fell upon the main body of the EU expedition force like a pack of wolves.

* * *

Cornelia watched the news footage on the small portable television as a furious battle waged within earshot of her field command post in Gibraltar. Reports from the North African front were repetitive, spotty, and slow in forthcoming, but the unmistakable gist was that her brother—against all probable odds and expecations—appears to have gained the upper hand against his much superior foes. The princess turned off the television and gave Darlton a look of profound displeasure. "I trusted you to educate my brother on warfare, not gambling."

"That is what I did, my lady." And though the man stood at stiff expressionless attention, Cornelia could tell that her mentor was smiling inside.

"I should have both of you court marshaled and demoted."

"As you wish, my lady, but I never taught him to be reckless. In fact, were I in his stead, I would have retreated just as you commanded."

"Yet you seem uncritical of his refusal to obey me."

"Prince Lelouch knows what is at stake. It is not my place to question his decision."

The princess bit her lip, unable to lose herself of the fear she felt as an extension of her responsibility towards Marianne's children; when the queen passed away, no one had asked her to watch over the orphans, but over the years Lelouch and Nunally's wellbeing had become as much a priority in Cornelia's life as that of her own sister's. After a tremendous struggle, she grudgingly conceded that, for the moment, Lelouch was beyond her protection and stormed towards the exit of her tent. "Guilford!"

The bespectacled knight appeared almost instantly. "My lady."

"Why isn't my Gloucester ready?"

"There was some damage after your third sortie; maintenance will be finished soon."

"Rally my guard. I'm going back out."

"Divisional head quarters needs your…"

"Do as I say." She punctuated every syllable to make clear that there would be no more advice or objections that day. The princess glared back at Darlton . "I should hope that at least one of my commanders still remembers how to take orders."

This time, Andreas Darlton did not suppress his smile as he followed after his pupil and master.

* * *

Night fell, and with it came the familiar sight of star shells piercing the darkness and the flashes of manmade thunder near and far. After more than fifteen hours since making contact with the enemy, Lelouch finally decided that the immediate vicinity was secure and emerged from the commander's cupola of his tank, the kiss of cool night air an immediate relief upon his heated skin. The deep thumps of cannon fire and flashes beyond the hills told him that the fighting had fanned out westward as he had anticipated; he also knew that the battle was not over by a long shot. Around him, as the crews busied with replacing energy fillers and loading ammunition, he withdrew the canteen located on his hip and raised it to his lips, the lukewarm water stinging as it traveled down his parched throat. A lingering tremble in his hand caused him to spill some onto the front of his uniform. Looking around and relieved to find that his lapse of nerves had gone unseen by his men, Lelouch drew his uniform sleeve across his mouth.

"My Lord!" The Prince turned towards the tall figure of his knight who came up in a jog. "The numbers are in; our lads knocked off 228 Panzers. We can't confirm how many the Krauts inflicted upon themselves in that last shootout, but it's bound to be significant judging by the wrecks left behind. The German armored corps is history!"

Infected by the grizzled pilot's jubilance, Lelouch allowed himself a brief smile before returning to business. "Even so reduced, the EU expedition force still has 50 to 100 KMFs left, plus most of their manpower. They're scattered now, but if we allow them to retreat we'll be in trouble."

Withdrawing a paper map from his thigh pocket—for he was now without the services and amenities of his mobile base, his office and home for the past six months—the young general unfolded the anachronism against the battle-worn hull of his tank and produced a red flash light. "We are here. Thanks to the big haul this afternoon we've managed to capture or destroy the bulk of their supplies and heavy weaponry. The enemy is retracing his original route of advance towards Alexandria, the nearest site where they can regroup and form a new line of defense, but they won't be able to move fast without ample logistics."

Taking a pen from Jeremiah, Lelouch marked quick red Xs over a number of circles before tracing a line west along the vital highway. "I want you to form a battle group with your battalion. Take a full complement of Sutherlands and two batteries each of Longbows and the self-propelled mortars. Drive until you reach Kewell's position, kill everything in your way; stop for nothing. If a vehicle breaks down abandon it. Bypass strong points you can't handle—I will follow with the rest of the regiment and mop up. We will shoot our way through and cut off their retreat."

It was a simple and risky plan, the success of which depended upon brute force and sheer willpower, but by now Lelouch had enough confidence in those who served under his command.

Jeremiah nodded, the discomfort of his uniform collar plastered against his neck ignored as the offensive-minded knight was reminded of how the outcome of their grand counterstroke remained very much in flux as well as the uncertain fate of his two friends—the only force which stood between 30,000 desperate European soldiers and their salvation. "How long can Kewell hold them?"

"… Not long."

"Then I'd best be off."

After the soldier saluted and left, Lelouch summoned his executive officer. "Distribute the armory to all available personnel: cooks, maintenance, engineers, MPs—everyone fights tonight."

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes:** So how was it? I hope I didn't bore too much with the incessant fighting and military jargon; I understand that's not what the majority of people read this fic for, but it was necessary as a part of Lelouch's development. The next chapter will see whether Lelouch's grand gamble pays off, and whether Jeremiah, Kewell, and Villetta will survive. Thanks to the readers who leave me constructive feedback; its what keeps me going. Nothing is more rewarding for a writer than to hear the thoughts, compliments, and (occasional) complaint form his readers.


	15. Kampfgruppe Kewell

**XV. Kampfgruppe Kewell**

""_Every soldier __handles fear __their __own__ way. Some pray, some smoke, I __confront__ mine by focusing on the __task at hand__. As soon as the transports dropped us off we __got to digging__. Our orders were clear—we dig our holes deep and __fill__ sandbags and string wire and __plant__ mines and __place__ ammo within quick reach. Then __there__ was nothing to do __but__ to watch the sun set and wait for the Hun__s__. The moon was full. They show up just as the Prince said they would, first a trickle then a flood coming down the highway. It dawned on me early that a lot of men would die that night. Last on my mind was the thought of retreat, because there was nowhere to retreat to._

_They freeze like deer when our stars hells go up. We mow them down with heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, and mortars. The missile teams dispatch the few vehicles that appear, and when the enemy goes to ground Major Kewell sorties with our precious squad of four Sutherlands to flush them back into the our field of fire; rinse and repeat. No panzers—so far so good. I'm feeding a fresh belt into the MG when Viktor, my ever bullish assistant gunner, says to me, "Looks like we might survive this after all, corporal."_

_Didn't he know he was jinxing us? "Shut up and watch the bloody line, Vic."_

_Adams, the ammunition bearer who was the pup among us at age __eighteen__, handed me a stick of Wrigley's. "Major Villetta said the cavalry would show if we just hold em' for twenty-four hours."_

_I chew the minty gum and cock the gun. "I shouldn't get my hopes up if I was you."_

_Three hours pass without incident and then hell breaks loose. The Germans waited and massed and then attacked in strength. We had contacts across the entire __line__. Our mortars become sporadic; we had too few and we were stretched too damn thin. One of our Sutherlands is hit by a Panzerfaust and lights up like a firecracker. The mines sixty meters in front of our position go off and I see briefly the faces of the people I'd been shooting at. Rounds start kicking dust into our faces and plugging into the sandbags around our hole._

"_Grenades!" We wind up and hurl, seconds later a series of explosions shred the soldiers who were caught in our barbed wire, but more pile through the gaps. I get back on the MG. Enemy grenades begin landing closer. Adams played shortstop in high school; he scooped two from midair and returned them to their owners. I hold down the trigger, the deafening din of battle now joined by the screams of the dying. _

_Then the inevitable happens—the MG overheats. Victor covers me with his __carbine__ as I change barrels but the momentary lapse in firepower proves fatal. Adams is shot in the face and drops like a sack of potatoes. Victor gets bayoneted in the stomach when he's reloading. I kill his attacker with my pistol but another European jumps into our hole, knocking us both down. He digs his knee into my chest and tries to crush my throat. I find the handle of a trench spade and swing it into his temple, feel his skull crunch and he crumbles onto me. What happened next, so I've been told, was that a Luftwaffe jet dropped a bomb close to our hole, and the reason I'm here now is because the bloke on top of me caught my share, most of my share._

_Adams died instantly, Vic died later at the aid station. Everyone lost friends that night."_

_First Sergeant Timothy Eaton Beltran, Delta Company, Battle Group Kewell; Interview for the award winning mini series, "The Ashford Boys" (2058)."_

_

* * *

_

Two Britannian soldiers squatting in their holes watched the section of their front in bone-weary silence. The tone of the sky suggested the time was that dreamlike hour between sleep and wakefulness. A dirty yellow haze hung just above ground, covering the highway and its surrounding plains and obscuring the lifeless forms of men. The orange glow from a column of burning European trucks drew the attention of the sentries, who stared blankly at the distant embers as they yearned for a source of warmth of their own.

Snapped out of their reverie by the sound of footsteps behind them, the duo turned around just as their commander slid into their hole. The soldiers lowered their rifles and saluted.

"Remember, no formalities," Kewell ducked his head as he continued in a hushed voice. "Lest you're trying to draw the attention of their snipers onto me."

The two men cracked a grin while keeping their voices low. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"How are things looking?"

"Quiet like a catacomb. We really flogged em' last time. Maybe now they'll stay put and wait for the war to end."

"Hate to dash your optimism, but the Prussians are a persistent lot; I would know."

The major's reference to a certain battalion CO was taken up by his soldiers without the skip of a beat. "Aye sir, will stay sharp."

Flipping his lanky form over the edge of the fighting hole, Kewell continued to cautiously make his way down the main line of resistance—a euphemism for a string of foxholes and hastily fortified fighting positions which covered the flat and bare terrain in the Westward direction. As the battle dragged on, attrition compelled the small Britannian task force of two reinforced companies to increase the coverage of each position, so that what began as ten yards between foxholes became twenty, then thirty, and now forty. The major had ample reason to be concerned; everywhere he found men at their physical limits after more than twenty hours of combat against a disciplined enemy determined to break out. To make matters worse, the European air forces had begun stepping up their efforts to relieve their encircled comrades on the ground.

Kewell looked towards the sky, where he spotted the bright blue dots of afterburners circling—a dogfight taking place twenty thousand feet above his head. Kewell had no way of contacting any friendly forces—sophisticated enemy jamming disrupted long range communication. The only time he got through he had been informed by an operator aboard a Caerleon cruiser that the Royal Air Force based in Tobruk was stretched to the brink patrolling the North African coastline and the Mediterranean. He was promised that the RAF would do all it could to intercept incoming hostile aircraft, but some would inevitably slip through—sparing aircraft for direct ground support was out of the question as none were available. That exchange took place twelve hours ago, after which his forward air control team was killed by German infiltrators during a daytime assault along with their irreplaceable communication set. It had been that kind of day.

His inspection complete, Kewell moved along a communication trench a hundred yards to the rear of the main line of resistance and arrived at his command post, which was situated in a natural depression that offered some semblance of shelter. Those seated along the earth embankment not gravely wounded saluted their commander as he walked by. "Good morning, sir."

"Looks like it might be rain, sir."

Kewell hailed them in turn. "Hang in there, men."

An officer with a red cross over a white circle on his helmet approached the major. "A word if I may, sir."

"Go ahead, doctor."

"Me and my chaps are short on everything; dressings, antibacterials, anesthetics… especially anesthetics. That last assault just about depleted our stock. The effect on those wounded early is wearing off, and I've nothing to relieve their pain with."

Kewell looked down the trench at the scores of hurt soldiers lying down or propped up against the trench wall. "Have you asked the men for their aid kits?"

"I have. I've searched our dead as well."

"Check the Germans lying in our vicinity. They may still have theirs."

"Very well, sir, and what of the live ones?"

"What of them?"

"A number of our captives are wounded, should I see to them?"

The sounds made by wounded men near and far entered the young major's ears, their suffering indistinguishable by their language. "Do what you can for them."

After the medic left, Kewell convened a meeting of the task force's officers. "Where's Captain Sandford?"

A grim-faced officer with his carbine slung beneath his arm replied. "Dead sir, from the last air strike."

"First lieutenant Nigel?"

"Killed in the last attack, sir."

"Damn. Major Villetta, bring us up to date?"

Villetta pushed several of her silver strands away from her eyes. "D company is down to forty-nine men. E is worse off; eight killed, twenty-one wounded in the last German assault alone. Echo's weapons platoon was also overrun."

"How many left?"

"Ninety-five; plus the walking wounded who can still man their positions, say 120." Kewell shut his eyes; he had 336 officers and enlisted men under his command when he boarded the transports at Tobruk. "The men are down to two reloads each. I've given the orders to conserve and gather enemy weapons."

"Major Kewell!" The small group turned towards the source of the disturbance and saw a soldier sprinting towards them from the main line of resistance. "White flag, sir; enemy messenger, your orders?"

A few minutes later a German officer in gray fatigues and an olive beret stood before Kewell. "Hauptmann Joachim Hess at your service, Herr Major."

Kewell noted that the astute officer had not identified the unit to which he belonged. "Your English is impeccable, captain. What can I do for you?"

"I bring a message from my superior: 'To the Britannian commander: You are far outnumbered and cannot hope to prevail. The outcome is a foregone conclusion; to avoid further needless bloodshed, I ask for your honorable surrender.'"

Kewell raised his brows; it was impolite to be sure, but he could not help but turn and smile at his officers, who smiled back. "Inform your superior thus: 'To the EU commander: You are faced with _superior_ forces and cannot hope to prevail. To avoid unnecessary bloodshed, Major Sorsei of His Majesty's Army demands his honorable surrender.' Have you got that down, captain?"

The German emissary chuckled quietly. "That won't be necessary sir, I know he will refuse."

"Then he and I are of like mind."

"I understand. In that case, my superior asks that both sides enter a one hour ceasefire, effective 0300, so that we may recover our dead and wounded from the field."

"Agreed, sergeant Melrose?"

"Yes sir."

"Fetch the prisoners for Captain Hess." After the sergeant left to carry out his order, Kewell turned back to his European counterpart. "We're holding a number of your men; you may take them with you."

The German officer's expression was one of undisguised surprise. "Thank you major. I will inform my superior of this generous gesture."

After the emissary departed, Villetta found Kewell resting on an upturned ammo crate a ways from the rest crowd, the first chance he had to sit down since the battle began. She offered him her canteen. "That was quite the chivalrous act."

Kewell thanked her and drank with gusto. Afterwards, he returned her canteen and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You think too highly of me. I was hoping that if things turn out for the worse they would treat us equivocally."

"It's still very like you." He scooted a bit down and Villetta joined him. "That or you've been influenced by Prince Lelouch."

He laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Withdrawing a small bar from his breast pocket, Kewell unwrapped the foil and broke the dark rectangle in two, handing one half to his companion. He smiled when he saw her reaction. "Real chocolate, not the stuff they put in our rations; my sister sent me a package a while ago."

The two senior officers of the regiment sat together in comfortable silence, taking advantage of the brief respite. Villetta looked around, her eyes resting on the horizon into which night had been fading. "Does this place remind you of Britannia?"

"Not really, where I'm from is much greener, although the winter here feels similar."

"My home is rather like here. You can raise fruit and pecans and grapes for wine, but it's hard because of the arid climate." She produced a picture and handed it to him. In the laminated photo, standing in front of a small vineyard cottage were four deeply tanned boys, from young to late teens, standing and smiling for the camera. Seated on a rocking chair was a woman wearing what looked to be her Sunday dress with a light blue stole around her shoulders. Standing behind the boys was a tall thin man with a wide-brimmed straw hat and deep creases on his weathered face. Villetta smiled as she leaned closer to point out her siblings. "I looked after the boys when I was at home; never imagined that I'd still be doing the same after I ran into you two."

Kewell feigned offense at the comment. He smiled when he returned the photo to her. "Looks like Lucian and Anatole gained an inch since the last time you showed me."

"At their age they can literally sprout overnight. Mother says she's exhausted from just fixing their trousers and sleeves… you're hurt."

He followed her gaze to a spot to the side of his left abdomen, where blood from an inch-long gash seeped into the exposed fibers of the torn uniform. "You were grazed and you didn't even notice?"

"It's just a scratch."

Villetta sighed exasperatedly. "I've heard that line often enough. Come on, turn this way and lift your shirt."

As the seconds ticked by, Kewell didn't know what was worse—the knowledge that she was scrutinizing his exposed midsection or the chance that she could glance up at any time and see the warmth that undoubtedly colored his cheeks. He hissed when she brushed the disinfectant against the gash. Villetta paid no mind to his embarrassment and continued to work. "Even a nick will aggravate if you leave it alone."

The blond officer swallowed, this time from the pleasant sensations of her ministrations. He looked down as she reached around his waist with a small roll of white bandage, placing her face uncomfortably close to his belly, and the roof of his mouth turned dry once more. "You're quite good at this."

"My siblings were active. Thanks to them I've plenty of practice over the years."

Kewell's eyes lingered on the face of the woman kneeling before him; he appeared to ponder. "What will you do once we return home?"

She finished fastening the knot and looked up. "Haven't you asked me that before?"

Kewell said nothing but only cleared his throat. Satisfied with the quality of her work, she sat back down besides the officer, who appeared unusually tense. Villetta raised a delicate brow at her companion before answering. "If all goes well—that is, if I am alive and made a peer when this is all over—I'll send the boys to university, whether they want to or not. I'll buy an estate close to the ocean and invite my parents to live with me. Father will likely refuse; he loves his land too much, and I doubt his old-fashioned pride would permit him to dwell under his daughter's roof as a dependent."

Kewell nodded—he knew well how patriarchy manifested itself in all levels of Britannian society. "… Marriage?"

"Haven't thought about it much." She placed her chin in her hands before turning to him with a self-deprecating smile. "Why, are you concerned I'll end up a spinster?"

_Quite the opposite, actually._

Those were the words he wished to say, but Kewell's nerve failed and the words never left his lips. Interpreting his silence as admission, Villetta continued. "I suppose I should. I'll be old when this war is done. That I am without pedigree and a soldier cannot but work against me—after all, a gentleman would prefer a lady familiar with her etudes and sonnets rather than a woman who pilots a knightmare."

"That's not true."

Kewell's paused; he was standing all of a sudden. The words had slipped out naturally, loudly too, so that it was too late to take back as she regarded him curiously. "I mean, that is to say… I've always thought of you as a lady."

A drop of perspiration crept down the side of his face. She stared at him with wide eyes that felt as though they would reduce his spine to salt and ash. Then she started to laugh quietly, but the meaning of her mirth eluded him and he wondered whether she truly understood what he had been trying to say.

A moment later, her expression softened and she smiled at her fidgeting friend. "Thank you, it means a lot coming from you."

"Villetta, I…"

A familiar and chilling sound reached their ears, a siren low and fast and growing louder with each second. Kewell knew that the RAF was only flying combat patrols at altitude, which meant the new arrival could only be... "Incoming! Find cover!"

The ominous din rose in octaves to a terrible screech that seemed to tear through the very fabric of air. The next few moments became a blur as Villetta felt a great weight fall upon and pin her to the ground, followed immediately by an explosion so close she felt the oppressive heat wave wash over her exposed areas of skin. Some time later, when the smoke cleared and her hearing began to return, she realized whose body had just shielded her.

"Kewell?" She opened her eyes and saw that his face was an inch away from hers, his delicate features twisted into a painful grimace. With a groan, he rolled off onto his side and began coughing violently. "Kewell! Are you alright?"

"Yes… I'm all here." The blond officer lay on the ground, now with several pink singe marks to the sides of his face and neck.

"Hang on. I'll get a medic right away."

"It's okay. I'm fine." Using his elbow, he propped himself against the earthen wall of the trench they had been occupying and looked over her, his shoulders sagging in relief when he found her shaken but unscathed. "You're not hurt."

"Thanks to your recklessness." She bit her lip as she examined her friend, concern etched over her face. "What were you thinking? You're the commander here!"

"Major Kewell, Major Villetta! Are you alright, sir?"

The two turned to the soldiers who found them. Bright flames and black smoke rose from the direction of the command post, from which many voices of alarm and panic were heard. "How bad are we hit?"

"Not sure, but they hit Lieutenant Jarvis' knightmare, sir. He didn't make it."

Cursing beneath his breath, Kewell got to his feet with help from Villetta and dusted himself off even as his entire body protested from the strain. "Pull back the wounded to the support line. Every man hold his position."

"Aye, sir. Are you alright, sir?"

"I've been asked too many times already. Get going."

* * *

"See anything?"

"Nothing yet." Villetta squinted into the range finder; the hour was 0352, and nearly ten minutes remained on the ceasefire. "It was a single jet, probably miscommunication on their side."

"They attacked during a truce; we won't afford them benefit of the doubt." Kewell, now with a white square of plaster taped over his cheek, turned to his radioman. "Call the snipers. Tell them they are weapons free and prioritize ground-air controllers—search for oversized antennas."

Villetta looked at her watch as the radio man got busy. "It's been twenty-seven hours since first contact."

"His Highness will arrive soon, the Europeans wouldn't be in such a hurry otherwise."

"Contact two o'clock, panzers!"

"Here we go again." Both officers turned towards the direction of the threat and through the zoom they saw the unmistakable silhouettes of the panzer hummels bearing down on their position. "One, two, three… five. Missile teams, up front!"

"They're out of ammo, sir."

Kewell ground his teeth. "What have we got left?"

"Just you and Major Villetta's Sutherlands."

The young commander bowed his head, his knuckles fisted white and his drooping bangs prevented those around him from guessing what was going on in his mind. Villetta gazed at her colleague anxiously. "Kewell…"

"Sergeant," his voice was as clear and calm. "Tell everyone to displace to phase line F."

"Aye sir."

"Lieutenant Kelley, see to the moving of the wounded. Everyone goes; be quick about it."

"Aye sir, right away, sir."

Two minutes later, after the officers and senior noncoms had left to carry out their tasks, only Villetta remained, waiting. "What are you planning?"

"I want you to take your knightmare and cover the retreat."

He didn't answer her question. "Phase line F is three kilometers south-east, it doesn't cover the highway."

"Then the Germans will not go out of their way to challenge it."

"And then they'll escape." She realized that while issuing orders he had stood with his side to her and continued to do so, a fact which incensed her. Stepping in front of him she forced him to look at her. "Are you giving up?"

"No, but we can't stop them. We shouldn't die meaninglessly."

Villetta was unsettled; this didn't sound like him at all. The Kewell she knew was dedicated and proud, vain but considerate, courteous and yet possessed the sharpest wit in the regiment when he chose to apply it. Now he was grave and so spoke with such resignation in his voice she was moved to reply in a hushed tone. "What will you do?"

"I am going to buy some time."

"I'll go too."

"No. It won't matter if one or both of us go."

"Then I'll go instead."

"VILLETTA." She was startled when his large hands seized her slender shoulders, and the dismay on his face told her that he was equally shocked by how he had raised his voice at her. He narrowed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

"… I won't let you die."

She stared as his clear blue irises held her own, lips slightly apart. A moment later, she found herself pulled to her tiptoes, folded between a broad chest and a strong pair of arms, and for a long time there were no words as he held her. He spoke her name like a confession, his voice rolling across in a baritone which she felt more than she heard. She would have liked to look up, but even had her face not be pressed against his chest her eyes would have been too blurred with moisture to see, so she closed her eyes and waited, certain that he could feel her heart beating because she could clearly feel his.

When he finally released her he took a knee and lifted her hands in his own. He rubbed his thumbs over the smooth skin on the back and frowned slightly when he felt the calluses on her palm and finger tips. He admired the grit and dried blood beneath her closely clipped nails, then bowed and brushed a reverent kiss over her knuckles before looking up with one of his rare humored smiles. "A lady should care better for her hands."

The embrace and his subsequent gestures had left her feeling warm and not a little embarrassed. "Is now the time to be discussing such issues?"

"I think it is a matter of utmost importance."

He stood to leave, his hand lingering on hers just a little longer as he smiled sadly at the look of confusion on her face. Turning towards the direction of his Sutherland, he took three steps when he felt a hand grab him by the arm. He looked back at her, unable to read her expression but that it was not loathing. Averting her eyes bashfully, Villetta reached behind her neck and with a deftly undid the ribbon which had kept her long silver strands in place which now fell near her waist. Taking the purple strand, she wrapped it around his upper arm twice and fastened it tight, letting go reluctantly when she finished. Kewell glanced at her, blinking as he waited for an explanation. Finally, with unmistakable color on her cheeks, she replied in a low voice. "I'll want it back, and you'll have a lot of explaining to do."

Kewell's heart soared.

The cockpit of the Sutherland came to life after Kewell inserted his pilot key: main monitor, login clearance, auxiliary monitors, primary sensors, secondary sensors—a routine he found comforting when what he was about to do was utterly unfamiliar and reckless. A glance at the blinking fuel gauge confirmed his suspicions—eight percent left, which translated roughly into thirty minutes of normal operation or six minutes of full combat power, which he knew he needed to tap into to even stand a mathematical chance of prevailing. Eyeing the tactical grid which displayed the signals of the five panzer hummels, he recalled how even though protocol forced pilots to withdraw from the battle when they reached bingo fuel—five percent power—the manufacturers built the packs to slightly exceed the army's specifications. So even if the cockpit's fuel gauge read zero, the Sutherland could have anywhere from one to three minutes of movement left. Of course, Kewell had never been tempted to put the theory to test until now.

He touched the purple band around his arm. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his fingers around the controls and brought his Sutherland forward, his vision fixed steadily on his approaching opponents.

"I'll show you how a Briton fights."

* * *

"Where's the major going?"

"He's heading the wrong way!"

In the midst of their retreat, the remnants of Kewell's taskforce paused when they realized their commander was not with them. Looking back towards their old position, those with binoculars put them to use and soon word spread that a Sutherland was going to challenge the panzers alone. Villetta, who had been consulting the senior noncoms to plan a final defense, put aside her duties when she overheard the excitement. She followed the shrinking form of his knightmare frame through her rangefinder and for the first time in a very long time, Villetta was afraid.

* * *

At first the Europeans didn't fire, their pilots couldn't believe what they were seeing. With the sound of blood pounding in his ears, Kewell drove relentlessly forward until he saw the panzers grind to halt. He immediately broke right, a split second before a volley hit where he'd just been standing. Using what little cover was offered by the terrain, Kewell continued to dodge and pull himself closer to the panzers who pivoted in place to bring their combined firepower to bear on the wily Sutherland who was outflanking them with impossible speed.

In the midst of the fury, Kewell began to laugh. He wasn't cut out for this sort of stunt. He did not have what it took to become an ace; unlike other pilots he never once dreamt of rising to the Knights of the Round. He was too conservative, too much a stickler for rules, he didn't hunger for battle like those who lived for the thrill of the duel, the same sort whose greatest ambition was a posthumous Victoria Cross. His goal in life was to enter the Imperial General Staff, to plan force structure and shape grand strategy from the safety of a desk. And now here he was, charging five opponents with an awesome advantage in firepower with a depleted unit with the aim of drawing them into melee combat. It was the kind of absurdly brave situations he could picture Jeremiah in, but never him.

_What's happened to me?_

He remembered the feel of soft silken strands that smelled lightly of incense, the small pair of hands scored by labor and effort, the voice which at some point began to sound pleasing to his ears, and the warm slender form he had tried to imprint into his memory, and he knew the reason for his change: Kewell Sorsei, who disdained fools and all things frivolous and unseemly, had become a fool himself. He grinned savagely as he raised his rifle and raked one of the panzers, the rounds ricocheting off the thick armor in brilliants sparks, distracting the steel beast. "This is your fault, Gottwald. Your stupidity has infected me."

The heady rush and lapse in concentration cost the major dearly when a panzer finally found its mark, a stream of 23mm shells tagging the corner of the Sutherland's cockpit of the maneuvering Sutherland. The impact rocked his seat and set sparks flying all around him, and Kewell was jolted back into the present reality by a searing sensation in his abdomen where a jagged piece of metal had lodged itself deep inside the same spot which Villetta had dressed for him. Dark-colored blood gushed from the wound and the corner of his lips as he nearly went into shock. More blood trickled down his forehead. He cursed beneath his breath when he found the secondary sensors knocked out; the left shoulder of his Sutherland was a riddled mess. The monitor flashed in bold red letters the computer's recommendation to the pilot: Eject.

Clenching his teeth in rage, he wiped the sweat and blood from his brows and saw that he was down to three percent power and forced a grin.

Leaping from cover, Kewell charged through the cloud of dust that had resulted from the hail of fire and emptied the rest of his magazine at the nearest enemy panzer from point blank range. A number of rounds penetrated and the panzer hummel slumped dead to the ground—four to go. Tossing away the empty rifle, the stun tofas flipped into place on the Sutherland's arms as Kewell collided against the next closest panzer from the side in full force, carrying both machines another twenty yards. With the panzer caught between him and the enemy, the remaining three European knightmares tried to put distance between themselves and the imminent foe, and the unfortunate panzer became a shield for the smaller Sutherland as it absorbed the punishment from its friends—three to go. Taking advantage of the situation, Kewell retrieved his last two chaos grenades and lobbed both towards the retreating enemy knightmares, perfect throws that bounced the bombs off and behind the hulls of two of the panzer hummels before they detonated. The terrific weapon did its work, firing thousands of tungsten penetrators that perforated the panzers' thinner rear armor—one to go.

By now none of the combatants were in fighting shape. The fuel gauge read empty, and Kewell felt the Sutherland's controls grow more sluggish with each second. When he rose from behind the wreckage of his unfortunate shield, the major spotted the remaining panzer about a hundred yards away, struggling to regain its footing after catching a fair share from the chaos grenades. His faltering Sutherland—itself marred with glance marks and burns and dents and other damages—stumbled to the side just as the panzer fired a slash harken, narrowly missing. He grabbed at the cable instinctively and broke into one last sprint as the panzer began to rewind its harken. With the combined momentum of push and pull, Kewell gave a roar as he dove into his target with his stun tofa out like a spear, punching through and destroying his foe like a truck driving plowing a brick wall. As the echo of the collision and explosion faded his cockpit's monitors and instruments began shutting down. Kewell released the controls and clenched the dripping side of his abdomen; he had never felt so exhausted in his life, and soon after his world went dark.

* * *

_The Victoria Military Institute, or VMI, as it was commonly known, was the most venerable and one of the most prestigious military academies in the empire, established soon after the relocation of the throne. For this reason its cadets were necessarily children of the empire's elite. Nevertheless the Emperors of old, in recognizing that privileged birth was not the sole determinant for character and leadership, decreed that each senior military academy should grant scholarship to one student each year, who, regardless of birth and background, so long as he or she demonstrated the merits worthy, should enter the school at the state's expense. _

_In Kewell's year, that student was Villetta Nu._

_He almost always saw her studying in the library or, on a sunny day, in a shaded spot beneath the old walnut trees removed from the center of campus and the dormitories. On weekends, when cadets left campus to return home or go thrill seeking in the city, Kewell would find her often alone in the empty cafeteria. She was not the least bit sociable, and thanks to her mixed heritage, she stood out from the predominantly Caucasian student body like a sore thumb, which brought uninvited attention from her fellow female cadets._

_He was on his way to a history lecture one morning when he saw a number of women—girls emboldened by their uniforms and privileged upbringing—standing around her and interrupting her reading. "Villetta, won't you wear your dress uniform for the upcoming Christmas ball? We all felt it suited you exquisitely last time, so dashing in fact Amelia here swore she felt her heart flutter."_

_The Academy hosted balls on special occasions and used the events to educate the cadets' on etiquette in social settings—entirely unnecessary, considering their background. Thus the events served instead as precious opportunity for the young women of the academy to step out of their uniforms and don their latest outfits to impress their peers. This unwritten but universally acknowledged tradition—to appear at the dances in one's best personal apparel—was less strictly applied to the men, who had choice between their own tailored suits or the standard evening wear which was part of a male cadet's wardrobe. It was therefore quite the controversy when on the Fall Banquet Villetta appeared in the white breeches, silver-blue jacket, and maroon waist sash which the cadets last wore in their induction ceremony._

_Kewell knew that not all girls from wealthy families were raised with mean spirits, but some were, and these were delighted to find that there was one amongst them__whose parents could not afford their daughter a decent evening gown. It reminded them of their elevated status in a society in which status counted for everything, more than money and certainly more than ability. "Poor Villetta, why don't I loan you the dress I wore last time? In fact, it will be my gift to you. I will even pay for your plane tickets so that you can visit home on the holidays… provided that you don't come back."_

_Finally, after more laughter and a smatter of small cruelties, the young women tired of their sport and left her alone. Throughout the ordeal, Villetta never looked up or talked back, but Kewell saw that she had stopped turning the pages in her reading, and her shoulders showed the slightest tremor after her abusers departed. _

_

* * *

_

"_Villetta."_

_She looked up from her seat on the grass, a notepad and several textbooks and journals lying open around and in front of her. "I received a box from home. Fruit jams, pies, things of that like. There's too much for me and I wondered whether you might take some off my hands."_

_She appeared to study him, which made Kewell feel distinctly more uncomfortable than he already was. They did not know each other well aside from participating in several exercises together and running into each other in the library while others spent their time in gym or on the equestrian tracks. Part of his reason was the desire not to see the food spoil, part of it was to share it with someone—anyone—before Jeremiah came an__d ate everything__. But the most important reason, that which was instilled in him early on as the firstborn heir to a southern squire's estate, was his belief that all women—no matter how low their station in life—should be treated with decency._

_She watched her redheaded colleague for several moments, then stood up and began to gather her books. When she marched past him Kewell heard the cool reply. _

"_I don't need your charity."_

_That evening, Jeremiah arrived at his room and proceeded to gorge himself while Kewell, so upset by the spurning of his gesture, did not even attempt to stop him. _

_He found again her two weeks later. _

"_Villetta?" She looked up. "Some scoundrel made off with my lecture outlines and I was hoping you might loan me yours for tonight."_

_Deciding that he was telling the truth (which he was) she handed him the notebook. When he returned to his room, he was surprised to find that the quality and organization of her notes were superior even to his own. _

_The next day, Villetta found her notebook left outside the door to her dorm building, sitting on top of a covered wicker basket filled with jars of fruit, cans of tea, home baked goods and perfectly fragrant peaches along with a enveloped pinned to the white cloth: "I am no philanthropist and this is no charity, but a gentleman is obliged to show his appreciation for favors received. Sincerely, K. Sorsei."_

_From that day on they were no longer strangers, and though they still didn't talk much, he became the closest thing to a friend she had. It was pure chance that in their second year the three—Kewell, Villetta, and Jeremiah—were selected to command a blue force in a two day long field exercise against a red force made up of upperclassmen. Jeremiah's knack for the offense, coupled with Kewell and Villetta's attention to logistics, discipline, and all the details which allow a unit to move and fight at a time and place of its choosing resulted in a surprise victory for their side in a scenario set up to be advantageous to the seniors at the outset. In the aftermath Villetta was officially included into Jeremiah's faction, effectively quelling the sneers and petty jealous acts, and the three have more or less stuck together ever since._

_

* * *

_

"… _force or… ue lead…" _

A small scratchy noise entered Kewell's consciousness. Cracking open his leaden eyelids and lifting his head, he took a moment to reorient himself before he heard the sound again.

"… _ask force orange… lue lead.. ome in, Blue Leader."_

Searching through his addled mind with considerable effort, the young officer recognized his call sign and answered through the earpiece. "This is Blue Leader."

"_Copy Blue Leader. This is Welsh from regimental artillery, we are fifty clicks out from your position. What's your status, over."_

He glanced at the last functioning display inside of the cockpit; through the pivoting camera, he saw that thick formations of enemy soldiers and numerous light vehicles and armored carriers were cautiously converging on his position. "Surrounded."

"_Roger that. We will provide fire support. We are beyond visual so we need you to spot and direct, sir."_

The urge to chuckle momentarily overrode the pain in his abdomen that kept him on the brink between wakefulness and passing out again—the good captain might as well have asked him to do a handstand and somersaults given the condition he and his knightmare were in. Kewell drew a quick breath and dug his fingers into the hole on his right side which he had been applying pressure to. More dark blood oozed out between his digits and the resultant pain racked his entire body as he bit down a scream. Now fully awake, he exhaled in trembling agony and returned to the task at hand: How was he to spot for artillery when he was sitting in a half-destroyed Sutherland, wounded, and barely able to lift his hand? But for the cracked display showing the encircling enemy, every electronic instrument in the knightmare had been knocked out or powered down. Providing grid coordinates was out of the question, as he knew not where he was and had no way of finding out.

And yet he was the last line of defense. He knew that if the Europeans moved past him nothing would stop them from catching the remains of his retreating force, on foot and slowed by their numerous wounded.

Then the solution occurred to him; he _knew_ the immediate heading of the enemy, and he _could _inform the artillery commander, if he acted right away. He would never have contemplated the option before he met the Prince, came to Africa, and realized how there simpler and more sublime reasons to fight than King and Country.

But it was a day for firsts and lasts. "… TF Orange, you can see my signal on your screen?"

"_Roger that."_

"Good. Fire for effect, all guns, on my position, over."

"_Blue Leader, repeat that order?"_

"All guns on my position. Target, mechanized infantry regiment in the open, radius 800, time on target three minutes."

"_Sir, I can't…"_

"DO IT!"

"… _Roger, Blue Leader. Fire mission, all guns, TOT at 0429, 15 rounds double quick, Target Number BL 0011, special correction circular R800, HE fuze VT. At my command… fire! Sir, time of flight is 117 seconds. You better get the hell out of there."_

"Thank you, captain. Blue Leader out." Kewell turned off the radio.

_Funny thing, thanking someone for ordering your death._

Thinking thus, Kewell reached for the pouch in his side pocket, withdrawing the cigar which Jeremiah had given him along with a red lighter. He looked at the dark brown five-inch tube, already cut and marked with a famous South American maker's seal. Kewell Sorsei didn't share his old friend's penchant for the indulgences typical to a predominantly masculine profession like soldiering—he didn't smoke, he rarely drank. He preferred fish over red meat because he believed an officer had to be capable of physically leading his men. It was one reason why Jeremiah bothered him; his habits were slovenly, he ate as he pleased, and yet by all accounts he was a good, even great, leader.

He lit the cigar, the dark cockpit briefly illuminated by the lighter's orange flame before returning to darkness. Soon the small space was filled with the pungent sweet scent of tobacco and spices. Accidentally inhaling, he covered his mouth as his body was wracked with hacking coughs. When he removed his hand he saw that it was covered in blood. "… Disgusting habit."

Gingerly reaching for his collar, Kewell drew down the chest zipper of his pilot suit and felt for the pendant he wore close to his heart. It was one of a pair of gold lockets that belonged to his parents, passed on to him and his sister when they passed away. Sliding open the cover, he looked at the small portrait of his last remaining family and smiled, knowing she was safe and far away.

"Forgive me, Marika. "

Replacing the memento, he then withdrew a small laminated photo from a hidden breast pocket. After a few tries, he succeeded in wiping away the blood smudging the faces with his thumb. In the picture were Jeremiah, Villetta, and himself dressed in the bright graduation garbs of the military institute with the band and the grandstand and the rest of their class in the background. It was one of the few pictures which he remembered smiling for, the three of them with their arms slung around each others shoulders, Jeremiah's grin stretched all the way across his face and Villetta's silver hair done up in a neat bun as she made a victory sign. The fresh faces were from a life time ago, and the memories brought a smile to the young major's face even as he gasped back a sob, overwhelmed by remorse and sadness and the frightful certainty of what was to come.

_I don't want to die._

Time slowed but certainly passed. He swallowed the tears and exhaled—the pain had begun to dull a while ago and didn't bother him so much now. He recited a short prayer that he remembered from Sunday schools. He grieved for all the things he would never do—he would never fulfill his dream or carry on the family name. He would never hold her hand, never have the chance to explain himself to her, never hear her voice and see her angry or happy, never again. He looked hard at the young woman in the photo, memorizing her face for the trip to eternity that lay ahead. He touched the purple hair band on his arm-_certainly that was something, was it not?-_and a lofty sense of peace filled his being as he relived the memory of his last moment with Villetta. The pain faded and his eyelids grew heavy. It was time.

"Farewell, my love."

A deep exhale, a final bow of the head, the cigar slipped from slack lips curved slightly in the corners, bounced off a knee and rolled onto the floor of the cockpit, the lit end landing with a fizzle in the dark blood that had dripped and pooled at his feet. Outside, the European soldiers who had surrounded the immobile Sutherland lifted their faces towards the sky when they heard the awful shriek of incoming artillery. The cigar went out, and the world exploded in red.

* * *

Jeremiah leapt from his cockpit and as soon as he hit the ground was mobbed by pilots from his unit whom he hugged and slapped on the back in return. He gave a loud whoop as news continued to filter in from the rear—After an hour of negotiation, the commander of the European Expedition Force had given his conditional surrender and Prince Lelouch had accepted, a ceasefire coming into effect immediately. The war had just begun, but the Black Knights' part of the fighting, for now, was over, and they were victorious. The exuberant lieutenant colonel raised his fist in the air. "Three cheers for Britannia's finest!"

"Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!"

"Long live the Black Prince!"

Separating from the jubilant troops, the lieutenant colonel jogged briskly towards the position of Kewell's task force, where they finally relieved after almost thirty hours of bloody fighting. He had his special occasion cigar and his box of special occasion matches ready. Running past the craters and the smoke and a Sutherland that had its cockpit forced open and the broken wires, he approached where Kewell's headquarters was supposed to be and saw a band of Britannian soldiers standing together.

"Kewell! Kewell Sorsei you beautiful bastard you. The Huns just threw in the towel!" He leapt over a trench and continued towards the group. "We won! Can you bloody believe it? We won!"

The new morning was gray and overcast. A drizzle—not so uncommon at this time of the year—had begun to fall several minutes ago. When Jeremiah cleared the final crest he came upon the group of haggard looking men, nearly all with a bandage and other visible wounds, their heads down and their helmets in their hands. Walking closer, Jeremiah saw what was occupying their attention: Their commander lay on the ground, his body covered in a gray tarp from the chin down and his head resting in Villetta's lap. She was trying to shield him from the rain.

"Kewell?" Jeremiah felt drunk; his footsteps no longer steady but a wobble as he took a staggering step forward. He saw his friends' eyes shut and his skin paler than he could ever recall. "Hey, wake up. Now is not the time to be napping. Wake up, Kewell."

But the major didn't stir. Villetta held Kewell's face in a caress, brushing aside a strand of strawberry blond hair and tucking it neatly aside, the way he always kept it. The drizzle became a torrent, and raindrops fell from the curvature of her face onto his peaceful complexion as she kept watch over him. The cold rain continued to fall mercifully, cleaning and concealing and washing away the grime and blood and ashes and tears. The rain continued to fall mercilessly, stinging and freezing and reminding all that this was not a bad dream to awaken from.

"_**Operation Crécy (November 10-12, 2016)**_

_Belligerents: _

_Holy Britannian Empire_

_European Union_

_Commanders: _

_Britannia: Lelouch V. Britannia, Kewell Sorsei (Killed in action)_

_E.U.: Franz-Hubert Stumme, Hasso von Waldteuffel_

_Strength:_

_Britannia: 3844 men, 66 KMFs_

_E.U.: 38,000 men, 378 KMFs_

_Casualties and losses:_

_Britannia: 217 killed, __60__9 wounded. __34__ KMFs destroyed. 15 Aircraft downed._

_E.U.: 3__0__87 KIA, 1__3__404 WIA, 3__19__ KMFs destroyed or captured. 3__4__ Aircraft downed._

_Outcome: Decisive Britannian victory.__"_

_From the Encyclopedia Britannica, twenty-first edition."_

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes:**

Kewell's character, as time went on, changed from a soldier grated easily by Jeremiah's carefree ways to someone more open to informality. I tried to paint him after the image of the gentleman officer, a number of ideals of whom are embodied by Robert E. Lee: Loyal, proud of his origins, dedicated to his profession, and above all a gentleman. I added some color to his personality through his banter with Jeremiah, and in his last scene with Villetta I felt appropriate that he should approach her as a medieval knight would in the fashion of Courtly Love (from which the idea of a lady giving a knight a token of her favor came). Kewell is not a perfect person. He is dour, demanding, and can come close to Jeremiah in terms of arrogance, but in the end he manages to connect with those normally beneath his status while retaining the virtues of his class. It took me a long time to build his character, and killing him was a hard decision made harder by his rapport with and eventual romantic attachment to Villetta; emotionally draining, frankly.

It is now midterm time in law school. The next update will come faster than this one. The generous readers will interpret this long chapter as two updates disguised as one. I apologize to everyone who has (once again) had to reread this story from the start in between updates to remember prior events. Thanks for reading, and until next time.


	16. The Price of Victory

**XVI. The Price of Victory**

"_382nd Ashfordshire Regiment Head Quarters, Tobruk._  
_October 25, 2016_

_Dear Marika,_

_How goes life in the Capital? I hear it will be a warmer winter this year. I also hear that the Valkyries just turned in their perfectly serviceable Sutherlands for brand new Gloucesters; never mind that we at the front must beg and scrounge for spares. But I suppose those who serve under the Knights of the Round must have their privileges, even if all they do is stay home and sleep in till ten in the morning._

_All is well in Libya. The weather is accommodating but for the dust storms, an occasional nuisance. Life is good at the moment. After months of campaigning it feels strange to live like a civilized creature again—showers and shaves every morning, private quarters with sheets changed twice a week, three square meals plus afternoon tea. There is speculation that the present idyllic state may end; that we may soon declare war on Europe or vice versa. You shan't have to worry though. With every week that passes our navy's presence in the Mediterranean grows stronger, so future conflicts should be at sea. In any case, with North Africa firmly in our grasp, Prince Lelouch has requested that the regiment return to the mainland to refit. I may come home as soon as mid November. _

_Serving His Highness has been an eye-opening experience. He possesses the gift to inspire the affection of the rank and file. He does this by giving them what they desire most: respect. At first I was discomfited—a prince should not lower himself so close to the plane of commoners—but when I expressed my concern he explained to me that acknowledging them gains him much and costs him nothing. I can not decide whether he is a pragmatist who acts under the guise of kindness or if he is a philanthropist who pretends to be Machiavellian. His innermost thoughts are a mystery to me and I suspect not even Jeremiah is privy to them._

_Speaking of Jeremiah, he sends his regards for the aged steaks you posted to us; he claims they are the best he has ever had and wishes to visit us in Georgia during Thanksgiving to thank you in person. That will not be happening. I know you find him colorful and dashing but no. I suffer him everyday at work and I shall lose it if he invades the privacy of our home for the coming holidays. I still lose sleep over last year's Christmas party and the silver punch bowl which we will never again serve guests with; once is enough. _

_I would, however, like to invite Major Villetta to stay for Thanksgiving. Her calmness and consideration has been a balm to me in my constant struggles with Jeremiah and I wish to thank her properly. Unlike him, she is an outstanding officer and a far better role model for you as both a lady and a professional. I'm sure you two will get along swellingly once you meet. I will see you again soon._

_Your loving brother and still master of the household,_  
_Kewell Sorsei."_

_

* * *

_

Lelouch looked over the men assembled from the vantage point of the grandstand. The parade ground was located conveniently close to the palatial presidential residence, which served as the temporary headquarters for the 382nd Ashfordshire. He confirmed with his own eyes how much the regiment shrank after the casualties suffered from Operation Crécy, lamented as an unprecedented catastrophe in Europe and cause for much finger pointing while hailed as a miracle back home—a brilliant victory that he personally conjured from thin air when all seemed lost. Lelouch knew better; fortune had been on his side. It had been a near thing even after the Germans took the bait and he was sure the same trick would not work twice. Fortune smiled upon him too when he managed to locate the EU commander through the fog of war and exact a concession from the Field Marshall with a carrot of generous terms and a stick that was bluff and hot air, a twig rather than a club:

"_Thirty thousand of your men lie strung out over two hundred miles without water, food, or transport. All will perish in the next forty-eight hours—by nature's hands or __mine__—unless you save them. Surrender now and your men will be treated in accordance with International Treaty. Further, I will arrange a prisoner exchange between our governments at the earliest opportunity. Lelouch Vi Britannia gives his word." _

The truth of course is that the enemy had been scattered but not destroyed, and by then the regiment was too worn to press any advantage. The black prince gazed upon his soldiers with pride. Their backs were ramrod straight and their expressions smug, fully aware that they had achieved one of the greatest feats of arms in modern history, a fact that would follow them to their graves and their generations after. Lelouch knew that if the operation was indeed a miracle, then these grizzled men and those no longer with them were the ones who brought it about. The Empire did not pay them enough for the sacrifices it called upon them to make, and it was once again a stroke of luck which now enabled him to reward them with more than mere flowery speech.

"Gentlemen, two weeks ago immediately after we entered Cairo, our lead scouts boarded and seized a Czech tanker as it attempted to clear the canal. The cargo, concealed beneath a two-meter layer of coffee, was purest liquid Sakuradite, mined and refined in Java and bound for Greece. The Navy's prize court was duly notified and upon consul's inspection the ship and cargo was assessed and sold at market value of 329 million pounds sterling. As is custom, one-quarter of that sum will be shared amongst the officers and half the total shall be distributed amongst the enlisted men; you will each receive 42,000 pounds."

Lelouch smiled as he watched the change on the faces of his soldiers; the amount was five years of a private's salary. "Report to the Quartermaster's Office by companies to receive your pay and arrange deposits. Also, as IV and VI Division have arrived, High Command has seen fit to relieve us—we depart for Britannia in three days. In the meantime you all have a forty-eight hour pass. I suggest you make use of it, dismissed."

A resounding cheer went up along with a flurry of black-and-silver berets as the men hugged and congratulated each other. Lelouch waved and then turned away with a smart twirl of his cape. He exited the grandstand through the rear stairs, where he was immediately attended to by a bespectacled warrant officer; a replacement fresh from the Britannian mainland. "Inform the officers that a community chest will be created to benefit the families of the regiment's maimed and deceased. They are invited to contribute a tithe of their prize. Make sure they understand that this is not an order but voluntary."

"Very good, my lord."

The officer walked with Lelouch along the palm-lined path leading back to regimental headquarters, reading him the day's itinerary from a binder: a press conference, a meeting with the commanders of the two divisions just arrived, a visit to and photo op at the hospital, a conference call with High Command, and an interview with Diethard Reid. As the list went on Lelouch felt his ire begin to rise along with the morning's temperature. "Where is Jeremiah?"

"No one has seen the lieutenant colonel since last night." The prince narrowed his eyes, his impatient gaze shrinking the inexperienced man who had yet to learn his master's pace. "Perhaps he is still in bed. Shall I go get him?"

Lelouch pondered for a second and decided to spare the new officer from having to wake Jeremiah after a late night. "Don't bother. I'll go myself."

He began to scale the marble stairs to the presidential residence when the nervous officer called from behind him. "My lord! His Highness the Chancellor called. He said he would meet you at the old place at 0945."

The prince stopped mid-stride. He replied without looking back but with an unmistakable edge in his voice. "Next time, tell me that first."

Lelouch strolled briskly through the white double doors held open for him by the sentries, whose boot heels clicked together like rifle shots as they saluted. Three minutes passed before the ghost-pale officer stopped shaking and remembered that his prince had given him orders to carry out.

The prince walked into his office and his orderly closed the door softly behind him, giving the young general the privacy he demanded. The lavish workspace was adorned with framed paintings and photographs of its illustrious occupants as well as visiting dignitaries from the past. Lelouch frowned when he saw a photo of a young Charles Di Britannia standing next to the former Egyptian president, Mahmoud El Khatib, before Charles was Emperor and long before the North African League came into being. He wondered why the photo remained on such prominent display after relations between the two nations soured following Britannia's string of foreign conquests. Before him, an oversized national flag still adorned the dark walls of the workspace. When the regiment moved in Lelouch elected to leave it rather than redecorate the palace with Britannian colors, as he saw no profit in insulting the host nation. He knew poor diplomacy could negate the gains of military victory, which was itself merely a means to a political end. Now that the NAL had been humbled and persuaded to join their side more injury would only sow resentment and seeds of rebellion, and after the last battle, he was certain that he had had enough of Africa.

He sat down behind the massive desk in an overstuffed chair and was soon logged in to the website which he had not visited for six months. A window opened to display an undisturbed chessboard with all the virtual pieces in their starting positions. Lelouch checked his watch and saw he was five minutes early. A moment later the user S.E.B. joined the roster of active players. The face of the second prince and Chancellor of the Holy Britannian Empire appeared on screen as he smiled at his sibling from across the globe. "Good morning, Lelouch."

"You could have just called."

"I prefer that this chat remain just between the two of us." Schneizel took a sip of tea and made his move, his confidential tone piquing Lelouch's interest. "I have good news and better news, which would you like to hear first?"

Lelouch took his turn and leaned back in his chair. "Let's start with the good news."

"High Command has decided to expand the Ashfordshire Regiment into a new division, the XXII Division. During reorganization the Black Knights will serve as an OPFOR element to train new units before they deploy overseas."

This was certainly good news, for it added greatly to the forces at his disposal as well as the opportunity to mingle the veterans with the incoming replacements, but Lelouch remained skeptical. "Why are we to become an instructor division when there are experienced outfits already assigned to the task?"

Schneizel made a tired gesture with his hand. "Because yours is the only one to have success against the new European knightmare frames. In every other theater the results are uniformly grim: our Sutherlands and Gloucesters are outclassed and taking terrible losses; IX Division withdrew from the Falkland Islands yesterday, but not before half the division surrendered to the French-Italian force. Honestly? If panzers could walk on water the EU would be invading us now."

Lelouch now began to understand why Schneizel chose not to make to a conference call. The revelation came hardly as a surprise to the Black Prince; he knew even before talking to Diethard that state-affiliated media—which made up over half of the major outlets—had a tendency to report stalemates as victories and defeats as tactical withdrawals when the court felt uncomfortable with informing the public of the whole truth. He had taken a radical approach to equipping and training his troops for anti-KMF combat, but challenging the formidable panzer hummel was costly business even then. Still, knowing that his peers had little to show for their efforts pleased him—their failures would highlight the import of his success. Which was why in spite of the black overall picture the White Prince presented the situation as a tick in the plus column for him; Schneizel was considerate like that. "I wonder what the adoring public would think if they heard their Chancellor speak with such defeatism?"

"Tell me you're not recording this." The blond man laughed; he was not really concerned. "I know what you're thinking. Rest assured that the court is fully aware of which commanders can deliver and those who can't. Our empire did not come this far by rewarding incompetence and marginalizing those who are capable."

"If you say so then it must be true."

"Speaking of incompetence, would you like to hear the better news?"

"Please."

"Our brother Geoffrey is dead." Schneizel picked up his bishop and advanced to threaten Lelouch's knight. "Upon return to the mainland he and Alfred were placed under house arrest for desertion and cowardice. Two days ago Geoffrey was found hanging from his bedroom ceiling with a rope fashioned out of wall tapestries. The investigation concluded it was suicide."

Lelouch narrowed his eyes at the screen. He drummed the handle of his seat silently with his fingers. He wondered what sort of reaction Schneizel expected from him. "And how does this relate to me?"

"That is the curious part." Schneizel smiled as he leaned forward. "Soon after Geoffrey's death a rumor surfaced in the palace that he and Alfred had conspired to have you killed. One theory was they gave your travel plans to the EU, another was they sent the assassins themselves. Consensus prevails however in that they plotted against you and the Emperor made them pay for their jealous actions."

The black prince lifted his brows—his father protecting him? It was an amazing suggestion. "Did he really kill himself?"

"Who knows? I do know that he was under Lord Bismarck's watch at the time, and we are both aware of how father looks down upon failures and weaklings, even if they are his own children." The young chancellor spoke detachedly as if the topic of did not concern him at all; Lelouch figured this to be true, for Schneizel El Britannia was the antithesis of failure and weakness.

"… Especially if they are his children." The Black Prince remembered vividly that fateful day from seven years ago, when the shock of having his existence dismissed awoke him to the reality of the world in which he lived. "What became of Alfred?"

"Banished along with his clan after their titles and lands were stripped. They're in Alaska now. Geoffrey's death saved his family some face, but they too were stripped of their titles and forced to leave the Capital."

Lelouch rested his chin in his hand; it was like his father not to waste time in casting out the invalid. "Still a more generous fate than being exiled to a war-torn Area."

"Perhaps, but at least in the colonies one can start over anew." The cool irony in Lelouch's tone was not lost upon Schneizel, who knew his brother's long memory well. "Due to the persistent rumors, the noble ranks are convinced that ruin awaits those who raise their hand against you. They've seen what happened to two of their prominent peers, and now, those who have slighted you before live in fear while those who have had even light association with you laud your deeds before the Emperor."

For the first time since their match began Lelouch noticed that he was using the white pieces. As the winner Schneizel always picked the color for the next match and he always chose white, deferring the first move to his younger brother. Today however Schneizel started with black. The flow of the game was no different from usual, which Lelouch decided was only reasonable. After all, aside from the color on the surface both sides were exactly the same. He made a look of disdain. "Is this what we can expect from Britannia's elite? Behaving like bandwagon sports fans? Perhaps the democracies are right, we are doomed."

"They know the key to survival is to read the tide and right now that tide is you." Lelouch looked up from the board and found Schneizel smiling at him fondly. "I'm sure you'll find Pendragon a very different place upon your return. Congratulations, brother."

* * *

The titillating aroma of alcohol assaulted his senses as soon as Lelouch opened the door. The interior of the room was nearly pitch-black, all the lights off and all the curtains drawn. He reached for the switch reflexively but changed his mind as he shut the door. Stepping into the spacious private suite, his boot tips came into contact with a glass bottle that rolled away with a whisper on the thick carpet. As his eyes adjust to the darkness he saw that there several more bottles littered the floor. "Jeremiah?"

He found him stretched out along an ornate bench, body slanted, not quite lying down and not quite sitting up. For a moment Lelouch wondered whether he was asleep, but the thought was dispelled when the shadowy form raised a fat bottle to his lips, the liquid sloshing the only sound in the room. Lowering himself onto the single seat sofa adjacent to the lounging officer, the prince pulled the chain of a shaded table lamp and the room was illuminated with muted orange light. Jeremiah was staring off into oblivion, his face unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, his hair a matted mess.

"How did you sleep?" The prince's tone contained no criticism or harshness despite his subordinate smelling and looking like a vagrant off the streets. "Have you slept at all?"

The soldier responded by taking another deep swig from his bottle and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "I might have passed out a few times."

"I can have the doctor give you pills." It was intended as a joke; Lelouch knew Jeremiah shunned drugs of any sort and sleeping pills now would be like cyanide.

Jeremiah chuckled, his voice raw and throaty. "I drank with him last night." He tipped his bottle towards the coffee table, where eight slimmer bottles sat along with a single wine glass. "His favorite Chardonnays, Sauvignon Blancs… California white piss that no one but a pantywaist like him could get drunk from."

Lelouch remained silent, allowing Jeremiah to continue.

"One time," draining the bottle, he let it roll to the floor before reaching for another. "In our last year of secondary school, a fellow chump threw a summer bash like the kind in teen cinemas, beach and whirlpool and girls and open bar. At the party was a sweet lass from the school ballet whom poor Kewell had crushed on forever. I, being the kind older brother he never had, secured them the use of one of the guest rooms upstairs. They were half-sloshed and well into each other when I left; all that remained was to let nature run its course. Imagine my dismay when I returned forty minutes later to find the girl in bed fully-clothed and he in the shower, soaked to his bones and shaking so hard I had to carry him out."

His voice tailed off in a slight slur as Jeremiah took another drink. "The prudish bastard—apparently, even with his brain addled with lust and alcohol he could not bring himself to do the deed. Never mind that she desired him as much as he did. I admonished him as a brother would: "Kewell, you're hurting yourself; you respect women more than they respect themselves. Where is the profit in that? Remember, unlike blushing brides, virginity for bachelors is no asset but a certain liability." He, sober and seething through chattering teeth, told me to sod off and leave him be. So I dumped him in the Jacuzzi, straight into the laps of three gorgeous dames who were only too happy to receive such a present. To this day he never forgave me for that… amongst other things over the years."

Jeremiah laughed, shifting his long frame until he was stretched fully across the cushions and dangling his legs off the far end as he covered his eyes with the back of his forearm. "And now I'll never have a chance to ask his forgiveness."

The room fell quiet, filled with the sound of the seconds ticking away on the antique clock. Lelouch turned his gaze to the half-filled wine glass in the center of the table; liquor spilled and glass shards lay where bottles had shattered against walls, telltale signs of Jeremiah's tumultuous night, but the glass for Kewell remain undisturbed. Rising from his seat, the prince walked to the cupboards, retrieved a glass and returned to his seat where he poured himself a shot of the cognac the soldier had been drinking. "Jeremiah."

"Hmm?"

The prince downed the shot, the unaccustomed liquor burning his throat as it went down, bringing tears to his eyes. A few moments later the fire spread to his abdomen and a warm haze began to spread over his mind. He recalled he had a conference in half an hour, but right now the young general couldn't bring himself to give a damn. "In his final moments, do you think Kewell hated me?"

Jeremiah's reply came a minute later. "I'm sure he was thinking of someone else, sire."

* * *

Villetta knelt before the plaque erected on the spot where they had found the Sutherland which, as if by miracle, survived the final artillery barrage in more or less one piece. The outcome was all the same though; by the time they reached the knightmare its pilot was dead. The figure of a lion's head—the Sorsei family crest—was engraved on the smooth surface of the maroon marble, followed by a brief epitaph:

"_Here rests the noble spirit of Sir Kewell Sorsei, the lion of North Africa. Unyielding and gallant towards friends and foes alike, he gave his life so that others may live." _

She knew his body was not here. His body was on a plane back to Britannia where he would be given a hero's burial. All that was here was the remains of the broken knightmare frame, buried beneath where its rider fell. She recalled the cold feeling permeating her body when they rushed back to the scene of his last stand, when she had forced open the cockpit and looked inside. She had been drifting since. Only hours earlier when she stopped before a florist on the bustling streets of Alexandria did the reality of his passing away truly began to sink in. The fragrance of the blue lilies—a cherished local symbol for life after death—she bought sweetened the air where weeks ago there had only been the smell of smoke and death. Reaching forward, she traced the engraved letters with her finger tips as she mouthed his name.

"Kewell Sorsei, what sort of gentleman lets the lady bring him flowers?" She almost managed to smile; smiling did not come naturally to her. They were alike in that way.

"See this?" The length of ribbon she held in her hands was stained dark in places where he had touched it with his hands, stained while his life seeped through his fingers. Her lips quivered. "Is this how a gentleman treats a token a lady entrusts to him?"

Overcome by the realization which so often accompanies a dear loss, the numbness which had sustained her for two weeks wore off and the held back tears began to fall and could not stop. They feel freely as she clutched the crusted ribbon to her breast, searching for a trace of his presence but coming up empty.

"What sort of gentleman lets a lady cry for him?"

There were the memories, the questions, but he was no longer here to answer them.

_To be Continued._

_

* * *

_

Author's Notes: This chapter concludes Lelouch and the Black Knights' adventure in North Africa, and marks the end of the "prologue." From here on the real story begins. Every thing up until now has been carefully dated so that Lelouch will arrive in Japan roughly at the same point in time as the start of season one. Needless to say, the circumstances of his arrival will be very different. The number of active characters will increase dramatically, which I think many people will be pleased with. Also, in case there was any confusion, the letter at the beginning of the chapter was one Kewell posted just before Britannia declared war, the last letter he wrote home. I hope people can appreciate how Kewell's absence destroys the balance and chemistry of the trio which has served Lelouch so far, a fact which, as the Black Knights expand, will require Lelouch to search for new help. Thank you all for reading. I especially appreciate those who left thoughtful feedback. Until next time.


	17. Homecoming

**XVII.** **Homecoming**

""_The parade took place on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. There had been rain on and off over the previous days, and even the Harrod's Parade was drizzled__ on__. But on that Saturday the weather lifted just before dawn, as if Providence sweetened the air just for the return of Britannia's favorite son._

_I was sixteen at the time and home for the holidays. My sister Esther rushed back from Wellesley just three days before the event. From the street sweeper to the celebrity all Pendragon was abuzz with excitement. A week ago the mayor announced a tickertape parade—the first since the victory in Japan six years ago—to welcome back the Boy Prince and his stalwart little regiment who were the toast of the Empire. Confetti and streamers were distributed by the city to the occupants of the high-rises which faced the main avenue. Hotels and restaurateurs did brisk business serving the 1.2 million visitors who arrived at the Capital in anticipation of the victory parade. An appointed suite with a view upon the procession route went for £1__2__00, and these were all gone within 24 hours of the mayor's declaration. Craigslist came alive as enterprising residents along Oxford Street invited strangers to join them in their homes for the occasion, for a price. _

_My sister and I despaired; surely we were too late to be anywhere near the parade taking place right under our noses, in our very home city! My father, the Baron of Baltimore, sternly forbade us from venturing onto the streets even with chaperons, where we hoped to catch a glimpse of the prince as he passed—he was afraid the impassioned crowd would separate or crush us in a stampede. Later I would come to appreciate his concern, but at the time I viewed him as crueler than the President of the EU, then oft portrayed in the tabloids with forked tongue, webbed wings and horns. Tears and tantrums would not move him, and it was only by the miracle-working abilities of our butler Ramsley that we were delivered, for he had a nephew who was the head concierge at the Waldorf-Astoria, and he had reserved three of the much sought after suites which we were so desperate to land. Christmas came early and so did kisses for dear old Ramsley._

_Saturday arrived. The morning began with the choir of a thousand bells from the city's chapels and cathedrals. The Archbishop of Canterbury proclaimed a day of thanksgiving. The city's sidewalks teemed with humanity, kept back by tens of thousands of foot and mounted policemen, many summoned from the outlying areas. The parade had begun. First came the marching band of the Coldstream Guards with their tall bearskins balanced atop their heads—rumor had that the Emperor was so pleased he bestowed the honor of allowing his personal regiments to escort the 382nd—followed by the pipers of the Highlanders in their telltale kilts. They were followed in turn by the mounted band of His Majesty's Purple and Royals from the Household Cavalry._

_Finally came the moment that all had been waiting for. A gap appeared in the procession as the music from the preceding formations faded ahead. The crowd's tension was palpable. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders and people leaned out of their windows. The 382nd Ashfordshire Regimental band—dressed in colonial red and white and donning large black tricorns—played their fifes and drums to a crisp and lively cadence. It was said that when forming his regiment, Prince Lelouch chose the instruments for their humble origins and independent spirit, being used by both sides during Washington's Rebellion. Indeed, there was something about the tiny woodwind instrument which embodied the mettle of these young men; though lacking the range of the bagpipes or the lustre of the brass bands, they were not drowned out, but were heard clean above the raucous ambience of the adoring multitude, sharp and defiant. Our fighting __l__ads from Ashfordshire followed, dressed in their service khaki and wearing the distinctive black and silver beret. Their boot heels landed upon the pavement in formidable unison as they marched down the canyon of ecstatic crowds and on towards the palace where honors would be presented—over three hundred individual medals for valor. My sister and I joined the showering as a snowstorm of confetti drifted onto the boys. They marched so smart and were all so handsome, each with a boutonnière_ _of primroses—Ashfordshire's county flower—worn proudly upon their chest. Each of them would be put up by a well to do family in the city for the next three days, and during their stay none would pay for a meal or drink out of his own pocket even if he tried._

_At the end of the column came their commander, and the volume inside the canyon swelled such that it felt to shake the skyscrapers. Prince Lelouch stood in an open car, smiling and waving with a purple and gold-embroidered mantle flowing from his shoulders. The parade was his triumph, and all that distinguished the glowing youth from the Roman Praetors of old was the absence of an attending slave to whisper reminders of his mortality. Then an extraordinary sight unfolded; a deluge of red rose petals fell from the windows of the high rises, specially prepared by the Society of Genteel Women for the man of the hour. The young ladies, overcome by their amorous fervor for the prince, began to add their handkerchiefs to the mix. Scented silks, muslin, and expensive lace joined the rain of petals as they descended, every girl hoping that hers would reach out and graze their beloved hero. I too flung my kerchief and watched it float down four stories, my heart stopping when I saw it land to rest upon his shoulder. Picking it up, he looked up and for the briefest moment our eyes met and he smiled. I did what any maiden who had just been graced by a glance from Apollo Reborn would have done: I passed out. I was hardly the only one; the vapors were endemic wherever the prince traveled, and he smote the hearts of all who his eyes passed over. _

_That day, the young women of Pendragon died many happy deaths."_

_The Right Honourable The Lady Winslow_,  
_From the BBC television documentary, "Pendragon Bicentennial Special." 2067."_

_

* * *

_

It had been nearly seven years since Lelouch set foot inside the Great Hall, the heart of the Empire on which the sun never set and whose standard flew over more than 2.8 billion souls, a number increased by the conquests which occurred in that span. Seven years ago, at the age of ten, Lelouch had sought the Emperor's audience in the wake of his mother Queen Marianne's murder; today he came summoned by Letters Patent in the wake of his miraculous triumph that shocked the world.

The massive doors to the Hall swung open and the herald announced his presence.

"Eleventh Prince and Lieutenant General Lelouch Vi Britannia, Earl of Ashfordshire."

He felt as though he was walking into a memory. The interior's atmosphere remained heavy and intimidating. The echoes of footsteps were the same, as were the hushed tones from the gathered nobles. Some things had changed; for one, there were many more persons present compared to seven years ago. Some speculated the whole body of peers and their spouses were in attendance. Seven years ago they eyed him as wild dogs of the prairie eyed a wounded cub. Now they were hyenas nervous in the presence of a strong, young lion. Lelouch smirked. Back then he was alone, now he had friends and allies amongst the gallery. As he approached the throne he saw his two younger sisters, Nunally and Euphemia, who beamed at him. Next to them stood Cornelia—who sported an expression of measured but still apparent approval—and her two lieutenants, Darlton and Guilford. His own lieutenants, Jeremiah and Villetta, had received their own summons and would be formally made peers directly following his audience with the Emperor. The Governor of Area Eleven was in attendance, as was the Chancellor, both influential siblings with whom he maintained cordial ties over the years.

Yes, some things had changed indeed.

He approached Charles Zi Britannia, who sat squarely upon his throne. Lelouch had not met his father face to face since that fateful day seven years ago. Charles was still formidable, age having no adverse effect on his presence whatsoever. Seven years ago the man had raised his voice and Lelouch fell on his ass, cowing in fear and almost had himself disowned and banished. Now he stood steadfast under the Emperor's gaze, secure in the knowledge that he was feared or respected by the noble class and loved by the citizenry. Lelouch felt a supreme sense of gratification when Charles rose. The prince's accomplishments gave the Emperor no choice but stand—to leave his seat of power—in order to acknowledge him. Lelouch experienced a savage thrill; seven years had not gone wasted. He pushed aside the thought that he took one step closer to becoming like his father, a predator in the world where the weak were food for the strong. He was different. He knew there was a choice, and one might prosper not only by preying upon the weak, the innocent, and the helpless. One could prosper by vanquishing the wicked, by pillaging and consuming other predators in the arena. He need not follow his father's footsteps, because he could twist the rules of this game he had been thrust into seven years ago.

Charles narrowed his eyes at the prince. Later on as the evening's social events got underway witnesses would debate whether the Sovereign had been annoyed or pleased with this son of his. Some said he was annoyed because he had expected Lelouch to vanish to into obscurity and nihilism, but had his expectations defied. Some say he was annoyed simply because he hated to be proven wrong, even if the result was that one of his progeny proved to be of sterner stuff than he first judged. Others said the Emperor was pleased and was merely reluctant to show his approval. Some others said the Emperor was pleased because all had been foreseen and was according to his plan. The Chancellor, whom many regarded as being closest to his father's heart and mode of thinking, only responded to the solicitations for his opinion with a humble deferral. "I lack the wisdom to know my father's thoughts."

The audience waited. All present knew the reason for which the Black Prince had been summoned but not the specific contents of the Letters Patent, and awaited the Emperor's pronouncement to finalize the matter.

"…Kneel."

Lelouch complied gracefully, just as he had years ago when he had to supplicate and beg for clemency; now he kneeled to receive his rightly earned honors.

"I, Charles Zi Britannia, by the Grace of God of the Holy Britannian Empire of all the Americas, the Areas, and of my other realms and territories, Sovereign Head of the Dominion, Defender of the Faith, to all Lords Spiritual and Temporal and all my subjects: Whatsoever to whom these presents shall come greeting, know ye that I do advance and create Lelouch Vi Britannia the style, dignity, title and honour of Duke of Hereford and Kendal."

A collective gasp rose from the assembled dignitaries; Lelouch lowered his visage, concealing his grin behind his voluminous robes. Not only were Hereford and Kendal two of the wealthier provinces in North America, they were formerly entitled to the clans of the deposed princes, Geoffrey and Alfred. The pronouncement had the effect of a gruesome public execution: The Emperor had made an example of two of his own heirs, stripped their entitlements—demolishing two historic families in the process—and just as swiftly combined and rewarded the spoils to a son he deemed worthier. It was a bold gesture which sent an unmistakable message to all those present: that no birthrights were secure, incompetence was insufferable, and that any who wished to play the power game should so prepare themselves, for the Emperor giveth, and swiftly doth the Emperor take away.

In the wake of the Sovereign's bombshell, the Great Hall was fraught with nervous silence and whispered talk until a pair of hands began a slow, deliberate clap which penetrated the tense atmosphere. Over a thousand pair of eyes turned to the second princess Cornelia, a Duchess in her own right, the victor in the bitter Gibraltar campaign and now commander of the newly formed VIII Army Corps. The soldier princess—called the Witch of Britannia by those who suffered her aggression on the battlefield—scanned the faces of those present with her falcon-like gaze as she continued to clap. Seconds later a second pair of hands joined in, and the gallery turned to find prince Schneizel with a disarming smile on his face. Prompted by the example of these two leading figures—one coercive with unspoken force and the other assuaging with reconciliatory charm—the Lords and Ladies put aside their misgivings and began to applaud. Minutes later, the sense of dread which hovered over the Great Hall like a deathly pall was dispelled, replaced by a joviality which befitted the occasion as the aristocracy buried those who had passed and welcomed into their ranks their newest fellow.

* * *

After the conclusion of the ceremonies the venue shifted to the ballroom inside the Emperor's palace, one of the largest in the world at 200,000 square feet. Compared to the fashionably austere Great Hall, the ostentatious ballroom served an equal if not more important purpose to the Empire's continuance, for here on the dance floors and between the orchestra's recesses, more decisions were made—more vital information exchanged and more policy ideas formed—than all the sessions of court and parliament combined.

The imperial ballroom represented the very peak of the empire's social scene, entry into which was restricted to a valid—that is to say, noble—birth certificate and beyond purchase by any amount of money. Here the successive generations of blue bloods made their debut; here the young lords and ladies and princes and princesses passed under the light of the crystal chandeliers and the scrutiny of their elders and peers. It was for many the first important test of their lives, as the impressions made here had a far-ranging effect on the opinions others would form of them later. And in noble society, as in any society, doors to opportunities opened and closed depending on one's reputation.

The imperial ballroom was undoubtedly a place of leisure, of parties and wine and young romance, but above all the ballroom was a marketplace, where serious business—marriage especially—was conducted. Here the matrons and honorable ladies dominated: they checked the bachelors like fishermen's wives inspecting apples at the stand. They were shrewd investors who calculated returns, scouted competition, and spread damaging (or self-promoting) rumors. Thus the imperial ballroom was not only a testing ground and a marketplace but also a battlefield, at stake which were desirable friendships and alliances which, if astutely managed, could lead to great rewards, even the greatest reward of all. Spectacular bloodshed, as in the case of Charles Zi Britannia, was the exception; in the long annals of Britannian history, nine out of ten ascensions to the throne were decided by the careful planning and execution of ambitious parents. Marriage was the race in which they entered their children, and power—including the Crown from which all power stemmed—was the prize.

So how did Lelouch fare on this rose-colored field—where words were weapons and wit was ammunition—which he was little accustomed to and had not the time (nor the mind) to rehearse for?

"My, my, the main course for tonight certainly looks delicious." A tall woman with silver-blonde hair and a wine-colored gown which flattered her impressive figure nudged her companion in the ribs. "Where have you been hiding this brother of yours all these years?"

"I've not been hiding him, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't talk of him as though he were a steak or lobster." Cornelia, dressed in her formal military outfit, was clearly bothered by her friend's choice of words. She became more nervous when she spotted the predatory gleam in her eyes. "Tell me you're not interested in someone ten years younger. Lelouch is still a boy, for goodness sake."

"Seventeen; barely legal but legal nonetheless; some of us prefer the taste of unripe fruit, you know." Nonette Ennegram, the Knight of Nine in the Emperor's Knights of the Round, licked her lips as she turned to face her former schoolmate. "In case you haven't noticed, every woman in this room from age fourteen to thirty-five has been eyeing your brother with less than clean thoughts since the evening began."

Cornelia was shaken by her friend's words; she too was out of her element in this place. She looked towards the direction of the prince in alleged peril, and could barely spot the top of Lelouch's head in the midst of so many fluffy dresses and feathered fans; bushes in a jungle behind which perfum-scented danger lurked. Cornelia began to panic. "I should go over there."

"That won't help, or make you much popular."

The second princess made a huff of disdain but stayed her step. "What do I care about opinions?"

"What would you do then? Guard your brother's virtue like the gates of Gibraltar? Shout 'none shall pass!' to the lusty hordes? It's futile, and he won't appreciate it either. You'd be better off finding him a reliable courtesan…"

"There are none."

"Or instruct him in the pleasures of adults yourself." Cornelia gave her senior a mixed look of horror and mortification, and Nonette only shrugged as her lips quirked into a teasing smile. "Which is why you should pass the responsibility to someone trustworthy, such as myself. Come on now, let's rescue your brother so you can introduce me."

Together, the two women made their way—with only a little roughness on Cornelia's part—through the ladies assembled around the eleventh prince. When they reached him, they found Lelouch engaged in simultaneous conversations and doing a fine job of it, although paying attention (for a gentleman's most important role in conversation with a lady was to pay attention) to six different women at once proved a hazardous task even for him. There was a look of relief on his face when he spotted the second princess coming to his aid. "Sister!"

"Lelouch, where is Euphie and Nunally?"

"We were together not long ago but…" Lelouch glanced discreetly at the cheerful noblewomen surrounding him. "We became separated."

"Then we must find them. Excuse us, madams, but the princess and I shall be borrowing the prince for a while." And with the force of personality and efficiency expected from a Knight of the Round, Nonette extricated the siblings from the cordon and the trio made their way to the perimeter of the immense dance floor, along which many sofas and chairs were arranged for conversation in a quieter more comfortable setting. Once they reached the relative safe haven, Nonette waited expectantly and Cornelia began with visible reluctance. "Lelouch, I would like you to meet Lady Ennegram, the Knight of Nine and an old friend of mine."

"Please, call me Nonette."

She offered the back of her hand, which Lelouch took with a curt bow. "Honored to meet you, my lady, I've heard many stories of you from sister."

"Really? What sort of stories?"

"Mostly to do with your exploits at academy, and how she suff…" He caught the warning look in his sister's eyes and affected a seamless transition mid-sentence. "…Benefitted much by learning from you."

"Well, that's Nellie for you, never gives a compliment straight to one's face." The Knight of Nine shot her former schoolmate a sly look before she continued. "I don't suppose she told you how when we were sixteen she went to the trouble of hand-making chocolates for Schneizel on St. Valentine's Day?"

Cornelia's face flared up in a way Lelouch had never recalled before. "Nonette!"

"Took all day and four tries before she finally got it right; I had the privilege of being her guinea pig." Nonette crossed her arms and closed her eyes as she savored the memory. "She was absolutely precious, the little sister who thought that brother Schneizel hung the moon and the stars. I wouldn't be surprised at all if she still believed that were true."

"Did someone mention my name?"

The trio found themselves joined by the second and third princes along with two ladies, one a handsome woman with dark skin and short black hair and the other with fair complexion, a gentle face and yellow curls that fell to her waist. Cornelia excused herself to the restroom and Nonette grinned like the Cheshire Cat as she made a small curtsey. "Your majesty."

Schneizel bowed and smiled in return. "Lelouch, this is Lady Dorothea Ernst, the Knight of Four. She has been gracious enough to let me escort her for the evening."

"Dorothea, please. Your reputation precedes you, your majesty."

Lelouch took her offered hand. "The pleasure is all mine, my lady."

Clovis followed with his own introductions. "And this is the Lady Kruszewski, the Knight of Twelve whose company I was lucky to obtain for this occasion, and whose brilliance on the battlefield is outshone only by her beauty."

The slightly embarrassed young woman smiled as she extended her hand. "Monica. Congratulations on your promotion and new title, my lord."

"Lelouch. An honor making your acquaintance."

Nonette glanced at the direction from which the two pairs came. "This makes three of us, we might as well try to assemble the lot. Have you seen the others?"

"Bismarck doesn't come to events unless the Emperor attends. Luciano said he had other plans." Dorothea thanked Schneizel when he handed her a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. "I'm sure I spotted the last two back near where the food was… Ah, there they come."

The group's attention shifted to what was perhaps the oddest couple that evening, a tall blonde youth followed by a little girl in a frilly black dress whose pink hair was done up in an elaborate bun. Each carried a large plate piled with food and the young man waved as he approached. "Yoo-hoo! Hallo there, Nonette, you must try this foie gras with caramelized pear, it is exquisite."

"You will be the death of my diet, you devil you." But saying so, the Knight of Nine made no attempt to resist temptation and accepted the offering, making what could best be described as a happy noise after taking a bite. The onlookers watched the exchange between the two Knights with amusement before Dorothea cleared her throat. "Gino, mind your manners."

It was only then that the young man noticed that he was with others besides his colleagues. "But I am in the presence of greatness! Pardon my etiquette, your highnesses. Gino Weinberg, Knight of Three, at your service. And this," He gave his plate to Nonette and placed his hands on the slender shoulders of the pink-haired girl, swinging her around like a parent showing off a favorite child. "Is my friend and partner, Anya Alstreim, Knight of Six. Don't let her size deceive you; she is quite the terror in a knightmare."

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Alstreim, Sir Weinberg."

"… The Black Prince in the flesh." Gino clamped Lelouch's hand with both of his own in a firm shake. "I followed all of Diethard's news updates religiously. That was a great show you put on in Africa; topping stuff, warms my heart to know that someone my age has been out there representing. It's a bum thing, really; everyday we wait for the Emperor to give us word to drive on Paris, but so far nothing. All we could do was cheer for you back home in front the tube."

"Yes, quite a pity." Lelouch was overwhelmed by the forwardness and warmth from the Knight of Three, for he had expected a more formal character from someone who had attained the rank at such a young age. "Shortly after New Years my division will begin training with the EU knightmares we captured. You are welcome to join us, and I'm sure the men's spirits will be bolstered by the presence of a Knight of Round."

Gino's eyes lit up like a child's and a wide grin spread across his face. "I have a feeling we shall get along swimmingly, you and me."

* * *

One week after the victory parade, Kewell was laid to rest in Arlington Cemetery alongside the Empire's past heroes. Jeremiah delivered the eulogy and numerous obituaries appeared in the evening editions and the following morning's papers—they memorialized the life he led, gave a colorful narrative of his heroic last stand, and extolled the virtue of the grandson of a migrant as the highest standard of chivalry towards which all in His Majesty's service should strive. Close to eight thousand attended the service, including every member from his battalion as well as those who served in his fabled task force in the final battle.

He was honored with a gun and cannon salute, and Army High Command—In view of his extraordinary sacrifice which secured for Britannia decisive victory in the pivotal Operation Crécy—posthumously promote him three ranks, bumping him from major to brigadier general. The irony of the reward was not lost upon his two closest friends, especially Villetta, who knew that one of his ambitions in life had been to surpass and outrank Jeremiah; it gave her a small measure of comfort knowing that he had achieved that ambition.

Lelouch met Marika Sorsei for the first time at the funeral. The girl shared the same strawberry-blonde hair color as her brother and was his closest remaining family. The prince found his attention drawn repeatedly towards her during the service, his conscience clouded by the inscrutable expression on her face. He knew Marika had served briefly under Cornelia before passing through further rigorous trials and became a member of the Valkyrie Squad under the Knight of Ten. He knew Kewell had raised her after their parents passed away, that she decided to pursue the same career as her brother despite his protests, and that she was a few months younger than Euphie.

When the prince presented Marika with Kewell's Victoria Cross and passed her the folded colors of Britannia, he was struck by the hollowness in her eyes. He recognized the symptoms of numb, unreleased grief and saw images of a boy alone in a raining cemetery, vowing vengeance against anyone and everyone because he had no one to turn to. Cornelia's appearance had given him the chance to mourn properly, and that was what saved him from the precipice of the worst darkness; empathy for none and antipathy towards all. He had been fortunate to have an older sibling who was there for him after his mother's death—Kewell was all Marika had.

"I'm sorry."

It was not an expression of condolence but an apology. The girl's eyes widened, appearing confused for a moment but eventually coming around, whereupon she shook her head. "Brother did his duty. My only wish is to follow in his footsteps and uphold the family name."

He had not asked for her forgiveness, could not bring himself to ask her forgiveness, and she had not given it. Marika's words—spoken without emotion or accusation—left the prince with such a feeling that he wished she had slapped him instead.

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes:** I've wanted to write that parade scene for some time now. More specifically, I wanted to write a scene in which girls passed out enmasse screaming Lelouch's name; seemed appropriate. This chapter is one of two transition chapters, during which Lelouch will consolidate his position and decide on his future course. Then the story really starts.

Music is a big part of my writing and several parts of _Lelouch of Britannia _were inspired by it. Here are some pieces which made such an impression that I had them playing in the background for certain scenes. All can be found on youtube by searching the underlined part of each entry.

Chapter 1: Tchaikovsky's _Manfred_ Symphony, 1st movement: This piece inspired the atmosphere of chapter one.

Chapter 2: Meyerbeer's _Robert le Diable_, invocation, Act III: The story of a prince fathered by the Devil, who tries to claim his son's soul by lending him powers. Robert's conscience is his half-sister who ultimately saves him from succumbing. In real life, Robert Duke of Normandy allegedly killed his brother to usurp the throne. In this piece, Bertram, the Devil's agent leads Robert to the ruins of a convent and summons the spirits of debauched nuns. The corollaries to Code Geass are interesting, and the piece, which can also be found on the OST for _Gankutsuou_, reflects Lelouch's mood in this chapter.

Also, "Blue Clouds" from the _Jin-Roh_ soundtrack: Cornelia and Lelouch at the funeral.

Chapter 3: "Neko to Ohanashi" from _The Cat Returns_: Lulu with Milly on the Tarmac.

Chapter 4: "Line of Death" from _Giant Robo_: Jeremiah meets his master. This track is not on youtube, but googling the underlined words will turn up a site where you can download the track; include the search term "ffshrine".

Chapter 5 and 6: No one song in particular.

Chapter 7: "No Helping It! (Extended Ver.)" _Gurren Lagann_: Lelouch's speech and unveiling the Black Knight's banner.

Also, "The Mission Begins" _Band of Brothers_ OST

Chapter 8: "Zero" _Ace Combat Zero_: Prisoner snatch, Jeremiah and Kewell dual-strike, Black Knights' first victory.

Chapter 9: "Rush! Issei & Yohshi" from _Giant Robo_: Black Knights to the rescue.

Chapter 10: Rare Earth's "Get Ready": Victory in Tobruk. This, along with most tracks on the Battlefield Vietnam OST, helped me draw up the personality of the Regiment.

Chapter 11 and 12: No song in particular

Chapter 13: "Is it okay just to get fired up?" _Gurren Lagann_: Planning the counterattack, first contact, "And so it begins."

Chapter 14: "Liberation of Gracemaria" _Ace Combat 6_: Black Knights counterattack.

Chapter 15: Foo Fighter's "Come Alive": Kewell's song; covering his confession to Villetta before his sortie, his flashback, his heroics and his final moments.

Also, "Omaha Beach" from _Saving Private Ryan_ soundtrack.

Chapter 16: "Happy Ending" from _Gungrave_: Jeremiah reminisces.

"Omae no XXX de…" _Gurrenn Lagann_: Villetta visits Kewell.

Also, "Akane ga Moieru" _Gungrave_ ED. Frankly, the song and imagery of this ED just made me sentimental about the duo.

Chapter 17: J. Phillip Sousa's "Hands Across the Sea" and "Semper Fidelis"; "Scotland the Brave," "The Black Bear,": The victory parade.

These are songs I think would sound nice if this story was an anime series:  
For a preview/prologue: "Main Theme" Ace Combat 6:  
For an OP: "Shuura" _Gintama_ ED5, "Donten" _Gintama_ OP5.  
For an ED: Shiina Ringo x Saito Neko, "Gamble". "Cry no More" Blood+ ED2.

That's all! Until next time, and thanks to all those who read and reread and continue to read this story. This is for you.


	18. Deescalation

**XVIII. De-escalation**

""_**1878:**__ Decades of industrialization and urbanization reshape the social-economic landscape of Britannia, disrupting traditional power relations across class divides and precipitating the __**Britannian Civil War**__. To preserve their feudal privileges and autonomy from central authority, the League of Nobles, comprising two-thirds of the Great Houses, secedes from the Empire under the leadership of the Duke of Vancouver. Royalist forces suffer a string of initial defeats and the capital city Pendragon falls to the rebels. The Duke of Britannia, William Pitt the IV, rallies a citizen army and routes the nobles at the decisive __**Battle of Sacramento**__, forcing a second round of negotiations. The __**Great Compromise of 1882**__, results in the following:_

_1) The nobles cede their feudal land rights and administrative authority to local parliaments. In exchange, Nobles receive a percentage of their domains' tax receipts as entitlements._

_2) The Lords retain most individual privileges: Trial by peers, audience with the sovereign, representation in the House of Lords, etc._

_3) The Sovereign's income is separated from the Budget and capped at 1% of the sum Imperial tax receipts. The Sovereign also assumes the expense of supporting the Church and stipends for non-peer aristocrats: knights and baronets._

_4) The Sovereign's final authority in matters pertaining to state is reaffirmed… _

_**1924:**__ The __**Free Market Revolution**__ headed by Empress Francine results in the most comprehensive tax reform in Britannian history. A flat income tax for individuals and businesses at 25% with a low-end exemption is instituted. The capital gains tax is abolished for assets held over 12 months and raised to 25% for assets held under. Along with other reforms, the decree helps bring about the __**Second Golden Era**__, which sees consistent rise of living standards, increased GDP, heightened tax revenues, and expansion of territory through the Second World War…_

_**1952:**__ The __**Area Reforms Act**__ is passed, defining the status of persons from the Empire's growing foreign acquisitions. To achieve the objective of comprehensive integration, eligibility for citizenship is based upon Jus sanguinis, wherein one parent must be a Britannian Citizen. The __**Honorary Citizen**__ system is introduced: Eligible to those without criminal records and required for public sector employment—post service, police, education, territorial army—and most salaried positions in the private sector. Honorary Citizens receive full judicial rights and abridged political rights: Can not sit in civil office; mayoral seats, judgeships, local parliament, etc. The __**Numbers**__ system is introduced: Non-honorary colonial subjects compelled to register to receive abridged rights. Ministry of Area Affairs created to oversee judicial and social services for the Numbers…_

_**1976:**__ Scientists from Siemens AG discover high-temperature superconductivity in __**Sakuradite**__; the element's demonstration of zero electric resistance within a wide temperature range along with its unique magnetic properties is heralded as the most important technological breakthrough in history. The first commercial Sakuradite battery is developed by Sony in 1978; the design overcomes the shortcomings of shelf-life and instability in lithium-ion batteries while vastly improving electric capacity. One year later, Westinghouse develops a battery which for the first time surpasses petroleum in energy density…_

_**1983:**__ Continued breakthroughs in the fields of collecting, storing, and distributing electric energy prompts Emperor Philippe to issue the __**Green Earth Decree**__, which, amongst other environmental legislation, phases out fossil fuel usage in automobiles and commercial power plants inside Britannia by 199__8__. In the first five years, over 320,000 acres (500 square miles) of solar farms are constructed. In 1987, the first electrically driven aircraft carrier, the HMS Richard the First, begins construction and finishes in time to participate in the __**Persian Gulf Crisis**__, which arose out of OPEC's dissolution due to sharply reduced global demand for oil…"_

_From, "Steward's AP Britannian History Exam Preparation Guide," 2018 Edition."_

_

* * *

_

_Bosaso, Somalia_

A slender young man in a clean white buttoned shirt stood on the curb of a bustling street. His hair was a soft sandy brown. He donned a pair of sunglasses that shielded his eyes from the noon-day sun and the dust raised by cars and mopeds that threaded every available inch of space in a swarm of activity. Cab drivers languished in their beaten taxis, fanning themselves as street vendors hawked bananas, bottles of cola, and bundles of Khat, the local-grown narcotic favored by natives.

The boy took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and covered his nose; he came from a place where petrol-driven automobiles and internal combustion engines had been phased out decades ago, and could not help being affected by the noise and fumes. He knew he drew the attention of the locals—a young Caucasian alone in Somalia's busiest port city and center of commerce—but the people whom he intended to meet had insisted on the arrangement for security purposes. He checked his watch again. At a quarter past twelve, a latest model Rolls-Royce pulled noiselessly up to the sidewalk and the backdoor opened to reveal a large and severe-looking man. "Get in."

The young man complied. Two other men, including the driver, sat up front, one armed with a compact Chinese assault rifle highly sought after by gangsters and anti-government forces. Through the tinted windshield he could see the pedestrians and traffic form a hole as if clearing room for an ambulance—it was clear the locals recognized the black sedan. His escorts did not blindfold him; Nadib Abdi Hirsi, with his taste for luxury and conspicuous life style, was an open secret in Bosaso, where guns brought money and money bought the law and in turn more guns.

After spending a decade preying on international shipping, the strongman had carved for himself a small fiefdom in this corner of the African Horn. He bankrolled the mayor's election and built the police commissioner a new house. His fleet of 80 ships and 1200 sailors held up tankers and transports, ransoming crew and cargo for foreign currency resistant to rampant local inflation; in their spare time they also caught tuna and lobster for export abroad. For years the EU failed to secure his extradition and was unable to produce a fleet to adequately protect the 20,000 plus ships which passed through the Gulf of Aden each year. One month ago, Britannia prevailed over the EU in North Africa and closed the Suez Canal, leading to a sharp decline in commercial shipping traffic and pushing parts of Somalia into recession. That, however, was soon about to change.

When the car stopped his escort exited first, coming around to open the door for him. The young man stepped out into the driveway of a modern mansion decorated with leafy tropical plants, rose-colored pillars, and white walls of alabaster. Abundant security cameras and armed guards were positioned throughout the premises. He was frisked and scanned with a metal detector at the front door. Satisfied that he was unarmed, an imposing man who had the air of someone in charge of things led him inside to his appointment. He glanced over the young man after they stepped inside the gilded elevator leading to the penthouse, eventually commenting in thickly accented English. "…You do not look like a James Bond."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

His escort departed once the door opened on the fourth floor, taking the elevator back down. Nadib, the self-styled "pirate king," was seated at a well-stocked bar, a newspaper opened before him and several plates of food beside him on the counter. He rose from his stool when he saw his guest arrive. "At last! Come in, Mr. Beauchamp. Can I offer you a drink? Whiskey? Champagne?"

"Apple juice."

The elder man paused and then laughed heartily as he opened the refrigerator. "Of course, please, sit down, eat, my ships caught these lobsters this morning, fattest lobsters in the world." The young man twisted the cap off and took a sip, noting the pistol holstered in his host's waist. Nadib sat back down. "I have been working on this crossword puzzle all morning, to improve my English, now that the Britannians are in charge of Africa."

The young man took in his surroundings. The penthouse commanded a spectacular view of the coast and the city. Below, attractive women in swimsuits sunned and frolicked in the pool. He returned his attention to his host, his gaze resting upon the half-finished puzzle. "That's a fine pen you are using."

"Isn't it? Mont Blanc limited edition, made from white gold, cost me 2,000 Euros."

"Your business has been doing well then."

The dark man shook his head with a rueful smile as he broke the head off of a lobster. "This war has been bad for me. The ships do not pass but take the long way around. Four of my boats were lost last month to EU and Britannian warships."

"I'm sorry about your loss."

Nadib shrugged. "All part of the trade." The pirate King licked his fingers before wiping his hands on a napkin. "Now, what can Nadib do for you?"

"In the next few days Britannia and Europe will sign an agreement to reopen the Canal; war continues but trade will resume. The Gulf of Aden will be demilitarized to keep from drawing civilians into combat." The young man picked up the pen, admiring the finely crafted instrument. "My employer has a proposition for you. We will provide you with coordinates of ships to attack. We will purchase the cargo you seize at a fair price through a reliable middleman. You may ransom the ships and crews as you please."

The dark man narrowed his eyes. "Whose ships am I going after?"

"No one in particular; they could be Chinese, Turkish, Britannian... What is important is that you only attack the ships we mark for you."

"Hmm." Nadib began picking his teeth. "What about ships registered in the EU?"

"Only if we mark them."

The pirate stood and began pacing the room. He looked over the expanse of his mansion, the guards and women he bought, the city his money helped build. Nadib was not a foolish man; he was a man secured by the knowledge of the absolute power he wielded within his realm, and right now he was in deep in the heart of his realm. "You are MI6, Britannian Intelligence, no?" The young man did not bother replying; his host knew who he represented. He would not have consented to meet him otherwise. "You are at war with the EU, but you do not let me attack Europe's ships freely. Why?"

The young man pushed the shades up the bridge of his nose. "Piracy is an international problem; my employer prefers to reduce it through diplomatic means rather than force."

"Because you have no forces to spare!" the pirate king hollered with laughter; he understood what the catch was now. "Everyone knows your armies struggle against Europe's. In four months the Europeans will retake Egypt and then I shall speak with them instead; my French is better than my English anyways."

For the first time the youth showed traces of a frown. "What do you want?"

"What is on these ships you seek? No, let me guess, the Philosopher's Stone?" The pirate king chuckled. "Once upon a time it was spices, then gold, then diamonds and rubber, then oil. Now it is war over Sakuradite; the West learns many great things, how to turn desert to oasis, how to power a city by the sun, but he can never learn to share."

"We will pay you 250 Pounds per barrel."

"The price of raw Sakuradite passed 1100 yesterday; the Europeans will pay me 400 to ransom their precious ore."

"The Europeans will not tell you where their ships are. 300 is my offer. Do we have a deal?"

"No." The elder man lit a gold-banded cigarette and took a deep draw. "Nadib is not interested, Nadib is not impressed by your cloak and daggers, Nadib takes orders from no man, not even the Emperor who grows old and foolish, sending milk boys to do his bidding."

The young man replied placidly. "Is that your final answer?"

"Tell your boss I will reconsider if he loans me his harem for a month. I will do him a service by satisfying his wives for him." The pirate approached and blew smoke into his guest's face, grinning as he patted the pistol on his hip for emphasis. "Or he can come get me himself—Nadib will be ready."

* * *

The door slid open and the young man exited the elevator with his bottle of juice in hand. Noticing the pungent scent of secondhand smoke stuck on his shirt, he stepped out from under the shade of the hallway and headed towards the pool. One of the bikini-clad women lounging on a chair looked up as he approached, smiling and interested by the specimen she saw. "Bonjour, que fait un garçon aussi mignon que vous dans un tel endroit?"

"_Hello, what's a cutie like you doing in a place like this?" _

The young man unbuttoned his shirt, revealing smooth pale skin as he picked up the pink dress shirt on the back of the woman's chair; it fit him perfectly, and he smiled. "Désolé, ma mère m'a dit de ne jamais adresser la parole aux femmes françaises."

"_Sorry, mother said I shouldn't speak to French girls."_

Half an hour later, a guard found Nadib dead on the floor of the penthouse, sprawled in a pool of blood from a fountain pen buried deep into his throat. His guards, his crews, and even the local police force scoured Bosaso over the next two days for the assassin, but he was never found.

* * *

_80 Hours Earlier_

_No. 22 Darwin Street, Pendragon_

_Office and Residence of the Lord Chancellor of Britanniaa_

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. We're a bit early, so we'll get underway as soon as Kanon finishes taking your orders."

Lelouch watched Schneizel from his position at the oval dining table: Present were the lead cabinet ministers, the chairmen of Army High Command and the General Staff, the branch service chiefs, and the prime minister who represented the Lower House. As a mere divisional commander he did not possess the seniority to sit at this meeting, but Schneizel, exercising his prerogative as Chancellor, had invited him as an observer, and so he came, aware that he was an object of interest to many of the assembled officers who had all earned their portfolios through long and distinguished careers.

Darwin Street was a scenic, shaded avenue which was home to many of Empire's most privileged subjects and its important buildings. These included the Central Bank, the High Court of Appeal, the Houses of Parliament, the ministries and agencies, and the Emperor's palace at the Northern end. At the Southern end was the Chancellor's residence. Compared to official residences of leaders from other nations, 22 Darwin Street was a modest building which resembled a squire's red brick country house. This was so that occupants and visitors alike would be reminded that the seat of Chancellor was not in competition with the Sovereign, who was the absolute head of state and had final say on all matters judicial, legislative, and executive.

Visible security for No. 22 included gates manned by soldiers from the Household Infantry regiments. In the event of an emergency, Gloucesters from the Household Cavalry were available on five minute alert, as well as any member of the Knights of the Round who happened to be on duty. As Lelouch recalled, the only time in which a threat arose requiring a response by the KOR was the succession crisis more than twenty years ago, from which his father emerged the victor.

Schneizel began the meeting when Kanon, his friend from university and longtime valet, finished serving everyone and left the room. "I shall be blunt, gentlemen: We are not winning this war. As you recall, back in October I presented the Emperor with our recommendation that we commence hostilities against Europe in Spring 2018. The decision by Geoffrey and Alfred to advance on Egypt and General Cornelia's preemptive attack on Spanish forces, however, precipitated a reaction from Europe which gave us no choice but to begin the war fifteen months ahead of schedule."

Lelouch followed his elder sibling closely; this was not Schneizel the White Prince, but Schneizel the steward of the Empire at work. "Now, six weeks into the conflict, five of our regular divisions are out of action, the Falkland Islands are in EU hands, and we've lost 20% of our available Knightmare force. The one good news is our possession of the Suez Canal, thanks to the efforts of Lieutenant General Lelouch, who I've invited to join us. Influenced by our strong presence in Egypt, the Middle Eastern nations have signaled their neutrality rather than join the European effort... for now. Our possession of the canal has also grievously disrupted trade between Western Europe and Asia; the EU is falling into recession. There is a flipside: In response to our closing the Canal, the EU has declared limited submarine warfare against Britannian vessels. This is our worst case scenario. Admiral Rogge, please bring us up to date."

The head of the Royal Navy, a white bearded gentleman descended from a family of naval officers who once served in the German Kaiser's Navy, rose.

"In the past ten days there have been 156 reported attacks on merchantmen; 112 ships were lost. These took place in the Pacific, the Eastern coastline of South America, and in the Atlantic between our lines of communication with Area 8. There are reports that surface elements of the EU Combined Fleet have also begun commerce raiding. The Royal Navy has so far suffered negligible losses, though the torpedo attack on CV-85, _HMS Blair_, will require that she put into harbor for repairs until summer. As we speak, the Home Fleet is providing convoy escort and the Pacific and Atlantic Fleets are hunting the raiders while confining the Combined Fleet to their native waters."

Lelouch was impressed by the Navy's prompt response to the emerging threat, the Chancellor however was less convinced. "A hundred ships in ten days… it won't be long before our economy starts to feel the effects of these losses. Admiral, how long will it take to neutralize the threat against our merchantmen?"

The old Admiral lit his pipe, a habit of his from his days as a sailor whenever he entered serious contemplation. "We can secure the coastlines of the Americas relatively quickly. We can reduce the Pacific threat by suppressing Vladivostok and the naval bases along Russia's Eastern seaboard—my staff is already drawing up a plan. I don't believe the Atlantic and the Mediterranean trade lanes can be secured; they are too close to the Western European heartland and many sea zones are within reach of their land-based aircraft. Major convoy battles could be costly. The only way to neutralize the threat in those theaters is invasion proper."

"And how are our prospects of mounting an invasion, Field Marshall?"

It was the Chairman of the High Command's turn to speak. "Not good: Two of our best divisions were bloodied in the Falklands; two were destroyed in North Africa. Our shortage of knightmares was chronic to begin with, and are now exacerbated by the premature timetable and higher than expected losses. Most importantly, the morale of the troops has been damaged by the appearance of the Panzer Hummel. Both confidence and KMF numbers will take time to restore. Unfortunately, while we focused on incremental upgrades to the Sutherland, the Europeans developed a true Sixth-Generation Knightmare, and now we have no answer."

Schneizel drained his mug and set it aside. "Project Camelot will provide the answer; a large part of our consideration when drafting the original war plan was its research and development schedule. The project's leader has informed me that the advanced prototype is near completion and field trials will begin shortly, after which we can begin low-rate production."

This announcement generated a buzz amongst the officials present. Lelouch was intrigued; he had never heard about Project Camelot from anyone. A classified weapons program? He would ask Schneizel later at an opportune time. When the murmurs and conversations had settled down, Schneizel resumed. "In any event, we should not expect the new units to begin fielding for another twelve months. As our current options appear limited and Europe unlikely to sit and watch as we starve their economies, I would hear your opinions on our strategy going forward."

During the next hour numerous plans were tabled, each with its merits but none without drawbacks: An idea to switch to the defensive was rejected due to the likelihood of an EU push to liberate Egypt. On the other hand, committing more resources to the defense of North Africa was an unpalatable proposition due to the poor lines of communication from Britannia to the African continent. An idea to invade Western Europe via Italy was abandoned due the difficulties of assembling and supplying a strong enough force in North Africa. The only consensus reached was that status quo could not be maintained, for the longer the war dragged, the greater the possibility that nations with significant trade and diplomatic relations with the EU—including the Chinese Federation—would enter the war against Britannia. One path which could have solved many problems would have been simply to pull out of North Africa, but no one was willing to raise this suggestion, knowing that the Emperor would have none of it. Lelouch took his time digesting all these options before an idea occurred to him. "Permission to speak, Lord Chancellor?"

"You may."

"Suppose we open the Suez Canal."

A pen drop was heard from the opposite end of the table; the heavy fumes of lit tobacco in the room reflected the stress level. Amidst murmurs which sounded like doubt, the Army's Chief of Staff leaned forward against the table and furrowed his brows. "Would that not defeat the purpose of taking the Canal in the first place?

"Perhaps, but seizing the Suez was never part of our original strategy; it was an unexpected windfall which by keeping we antagonize the rest of the world. The Europeans are fighting to preserve their way of life; they WILL attempt to retake Egypt if the alternative is a new Great Depression. However, if we permit them to use the canal—if we let Europe and the rest of the world trade and do business as usual—the EU would be much less tempted to regain Egypt, and the other nations' will feel less compelled to become our enemies."

The Black Prince observed the reaction from his audience and saw that the sentiment, which had turned increasingly bleak and edgy in the last hour, began to shift. Schneizel smiled, sat back and motioned for him to continue.

"The Suez, as the other gateway to the Mediterranean besides Gibraltar, holds great strategic and symbolic value, but not enough if we must commit more resources to defending it. If we propose a deal to Europe in which they cease merchant raiding in return for our opening the Canal to strictly commercial passage—that is, to spare global trade upon which everyone's livelihood depends from our war—I believe they would agree. Most importantly, this could be the first of a series of steps taken to deescalate and to obtain the time we need to rearm and regroup. In a democratic society, a man who can work and feed himself and his family is generally content with his lot, and will not support his politician in launching needless military adventures. Take away his job and his security and he may turn desperate; the same is true for us."

Heads began to nod as officials began to warm to the idea. Schneizel, the chief diplomat of the Empire, contributed to the growing consensus. "Opening the Canal would go a long way in repairing our standing with other nations, perhaps even reopen a line of dialogue to Brussels."

The Secretary of the Treasury chimed in. "We can gear up the arms industry quicker and more dramatically than Europe—our counterparts have red tape, constituents and private sector interests to satisfy. Our economy is also better insulated in wartime; we've accumulated an ample war chest from past fiscal years, we just need time to spend it."

"On that note: If we are determined to open the Canal, there may be a way to hinder the EU buildup in the interim without breaking our commitment to leaving merchantmen alone." The room's attention turned to the quiet minister who oversaw the Empire's numerous intelligence agencies, an extremely prominent portfolio which made the minister—one of the Emperor's oldest and most trusted officials—the second most influential individual on the cabinet. "Strictly speaking, it is a revisit upon an idea we first tried against the Spanish in the 16th century, which worked reasonably well. Now an opportunity seems to have presented itself, and we have assets in place to set the plan in motion immediately…"

Once a general course of action had been decided, the meeting's productivity increased dramatically as details and objectives were hammered out for ministers and officers to take back to their posts to plan towards and execute. At ten past seven in the evening, the Chancellor adjourned the highly successful cabinet meeting. The minister responsible returned to his office and placed a call to the gentleman who was executive director of the Secret Intelligence Service (colloquially known as MI6), initiating the operation which would employ Somali pirates to hijack ships carrying Sakuradite—raw or refined—to Europe, with the goal of hindering EU war production while maintaining full deniability of Britannian involvement.

Two weeks later, the _Bullwinkle_, a 120,000 ton Canadian tanker carrying Sakuradite ore from Manila, Philippines to Marseille, France was seized by pirates while passing through the Gulf of Aden. The crew was ransomed and the ship returned emptied of its cargo, which presumably vanished on the black market. Four more ships, including another registered in Britannia, shared the same fate shortly. When the EU Council pressed for action, it received a reply from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs stating that the situation was most distressing, but due to ongoing hostilities the Empire was unable to spare naval forces to police Somali waters. And in any event, warships were prohibited from entering the Gulf of Aden as per the newly ratified treaty so as to avoid drawing commercial and neutral shipping into the conflict between the two belligerents. Britannia's hands were thus regrettably tied.

* * *

_December 24, 2016_

_Aries palace_

Lelouch shifted beneath his sheets. Lying on the verge between sleep and wakefulness, he was about to let the encompassing warmth lure him back into slumber when he felt himself come up against a soft weight. He caught scent of a faint flowery sweetness as something feathery brushed against the tip of his nose. Open his bleary eyes with considerable effort, he saw Euphemia lying next to him, smiling brightly as she tickled him with the end of one of her pink tendrils.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." She watch his dark lashes flicker as he blinked dazedly, and then to her dismay the prince flipped back to his other side and almost immediately settled back into a steady pace of breathing. "Hey! Wake up!"

He laughed as she launched onto him and began to roll him out of bed. "Alright, alright, I'm up! I've been away for so long, can't you let me off even once?"

"I would, but sister wouldn't. Besides it's Christmas Eve, and you've done nothing but sleep since you came home." She helped him slip into his bathrobe, as she knew that Lelouch was notoriously uncoordinated in the morning before he had time to freshen up. Draping a set of towels over his shoulder, she ushered him into the bathroom. "Schneizel and Clovis are coming for lunch, Sister is taking you shopping, and Nunally and I have a final rehearsal for the choir performance tonight. Full day ahead, so finish quickly and come down."

Fifteen minutes later, he walked into the kitchen and found the air filled with a mixture of delicious aromas and the counter full of food: Oysters on crushed ice, pink smoked salmon, a gorgeous Christmas pudding, a chocolate log, sweet meat pies, plates of walnuts, almonds, raisins, pears, and oranges, as well as bottles of wine, champagne, and cider. The honeyed ham and roasted birds were kept under large silver dish covers. Most of the food had been prepared by the kitchen staff the day before and only required warming up and serving; Lelouch then gave all the servants three days off and sent them home. He walked around the counter to the other side of the room, where Cornelia was kneeling to retrieve a tray of freshly-baked cookies from the oven. When the prince reached over her shoulder for one of the star-shaped cookies his sister slapped his hand away. "That's for after the meal."

"But I'm hungry now."

"Have some fruit and bread, lunch will start as soon as everyone arrives." He continued to gaze at her in a silent plea and Cornelia soon relented. "Oh alright." The princess removed a cookie from the tray with a spatula and passed it to her brother in a napkin. "Careful, don't burn your mouth."

"This is delicious." Lelouch complimented between bites as he took in the sight of his elder sister, who wore a cream-colored apron over a wine-red sweater. "Funny thing; after all these years I never knew you could bake."

"As a girl I had to learn even if I didn't want to." Cornelia loosened her hair, which had been tied back in a pony tail, and poured him a glass of milk. "I also learned ballet, watercolour painting, and the viola, but forgot it all after going years without practice."

"So the reason you still remember baking is because of Schneizel?"

The princesses' cheeks brightened a bit before she sighed, amusing the prince greatly. "That was a long time ago. How was the conference yesterday?"

"Went quite well; rest assured that none of the higher ups are still upset at you for hitting the Spaniards first."

"I wasn't exactly thinking about them at the time, you know." Cornelia folded her arms as she looked at him solemnly: In the wake of the assassination attempt on Lelouch, she had given orders to hold all calls from High Command and twenty-four hours passed before Darlton could convince her to call off the offensive in the southern tip of the Iberian Peninsula. Part of her motivation had been to take prisoners with which to redeem Lelouch had he been in European captivity, but that was only one part. Another part of her, not knowing whether her brother was dead or alive, simply wanted revenge and no orders issued from above could stop her. It was only afterwards, when Lelouch's safety was confirmed and word began to trickle in that the attempt might have been an inside job that she began to worry over the implications of her independent actions and their adverse effects on her relationship with her superiors.

Lelouch nodded; he understood the risk she had placed herself in because of him. "… I know, sister. I won't forget what you did for me."

The serious expression was replaced by a gentle smile, and Cornelia reached out to pinch him lightly on the cheek. "Just try to stay out of trouble, at least for the Holidays."

"That shouldn't be a problem, since Father declared that all our forces will halt offensive actions until New Years is over."

"It was Schneizel's idea; now the leaders of the EU will have to reciprocate or appear as though they're trying to pursue an aggressive war while we are trying to stand down… it's just like him to come up with something like this."

Cornelia shook her head. Before Lelouch could reply, their conversation was interrupted by the cheerful voices of his younger sisters from across the hall. "Lelouch! Come here!"

Wiping the crumbs from his lips to hide the evidence of favoritism shown him, the prince made his way towards the sitting room where he saw Euphemia standing behind Nunally's wheelchair. The duo smiled confidentially as they motioned for Lelouch to come closer. When he knelt down besides Nunally, who looked as though she was trying to share a whispered secret with him, he was surprised by the simultaneous kisses that caught him in between. Beaming from her successful ambush, Euphemia's face flushed a pleasant color and she pointed to the mistletoe in the doorway overhead as both girls began to giggle.

"Merry Christmas, Lelouch!"

* * *

_Port of Aden, Yemen_

After a two hour ride on a chartered helicopter which ferried him across the Gulf, the agent went back to his hotel to check whether he had any messages at the front desk. Finding none, he returned to his room and took a long hot soak in the bath. When he emerged from the bathroom, he made a phone call to a number unlisted on any directory in the world except two. After several rings the other end picked up and he made his report. "As expected the target refused to cooperate. I removed him."

The reply came in a digitally scrambled voice. _"Any complications?"_

Still faintly steaming from the bath, he sat down on the bed with a thick towel wrapped around his waist and poured himself a glass of mineral water. "None. I'll contact the second in command shortly. He may be more amenable to dealing."

"_That won't be necessary. Another agent will finish negotiations. You've been assigned to a job in Los Angeles. You leave tomorrow."_

"The mission?"

"_Direct Removal."_

"New cover?"

"_Yes. You'll get the rest of the details after you arrive."_

The conversation ended, the boy let himself fall back onto the bed. The hotel, aware of the custom of many of its Western patrons, had left a small candy cane on his pillow. Azure eyes stared absently towards the elaborate patterns of the ceiling panels as he went over the roster of agency-approved false identities in his head. He had been Peter Beauchamp for nearly two months, a relatively long time. Before that he was Matthew Kirkland, before that Conrad Schafer, and so on. It was time for another new name.

"Adam, Edward, Henry, Johan, Lawrence, Nicholas, Rolo…"

He paused. Playing on television in muted volume was footage of holiday celebrations from around the world. Crowds visiting Christmas markets, men in Santa suits with children on their laps, towering trees lit with thousands of lights, ice rinks filled with friends and families.

He unwrapped the candy and gave the peppermint stick a lick. "… Rolo."

It was a nice name.

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes:** I lied, I said this chapter would be the last chapter prior to Japan, but it is not. The scenes turned out longer than I thought and if I had tried to fit in everything I felt necessary to make a good transition, this chapter would have been over 10,000 words and taken another two weeks to finish. As such the chapter accomplishes several things: It addresses the big picture of the war and how Lelouch gains some respite, introduces Rolo (who will not be a factor in the story for some time yet) and hints ahead to the Lancelot development team, who some might remember had the designation Camelot. The next chapter will really be the last chapter before the story changes scenes to Area Eleven, where the familiar faces everyone wants to see will come into the spotlight.

There are some real world parallels in my chapters, some which are easy to spot and some less so: The name of the former Egyptian president referred to in chapter 16 is the name of the country's most famous soccer player. The Britannian strategy here is based on English privateers in the sixteenth century. Darwin Street happens to sound like Downing Street, where the British prime minister's office is. Rogge is the name of a German captain during World War 2. _HMS Blair_... that should be obvious, unless you think it refers to Selma Blair the actress. That's all for now, Merry Christmas to you all.


	19. The Prince's Departure

**XIX. The Prince's Departure**

""_Name: Andreas Sherwood Darlton_

_Rank: Major General O-8._  
_  
Birthplace: Orange County, California._  
_  
Age: 40 (Borne August 8, 1976)_

_Education: Saint Andrew's College, thereafter attended Britannian Army Military Academy at West Point where he received a Bachelor's Degree in Systems Engineering and another in Management. Played football for four semesters. Received Rhodes Scholarship in 1996; earned Doctorate in History at University of Oxford in 1999. Fluent in five foreign languages, including Japanese, Spanish, and Russian._

_Career: Branched into paratroopers; joined the 101__st__ Airborne Division. Made captain after the invasion of Area Nine. Made major after quelling uprising in Area Six. Joined the Special Air Service in 2003, took part in twenty-five classified operations until resignation in 2005. Became tutor to Second Princess Cornelia later that same year. Knighted and made Colonel in 2008 after defeating rebels in Area Seven. Made brigadier general and created a viscount in 2010 during the Invasion of Area Eleven. Refused promotion and command of his own division in 2012, electing to remain on Cornelia's staff. Tutored Eleventh Prince Lelouch from 2014 to 2016. Made major general and created an Earl in 2016 after defense of Gibraltar from Spanish forces. Currently commands XII Division within Cornelia's VIII Army Corps._

_Decorations: Four Purple Hearts, two Bronze Stars, two Silver Stars, one Imperial Service Cross, two Victoria Cross awards (VC and Bar)._

_Family: Eldest of four children, one sister and two brothers, one of whom died at the age of four. Father Nicholas K. Darlton and mother Katherine; Darlton the elder was a furniture maker, mother a nurse. Grandfather Benjamin Darlton served in World War 2. Parents retired and residing in Arizona._

_Five adopted sons: Alfred, Bartholomew, Claudio, Edgar, and David. Adopted during his time spent in the SAS from South America, Eastern Europe, and other locations. Ages nineteen to twenty-one. All five serving under Cornelia's command. Unofficially known as the _Glaston_ Knights. _

_General Evaluation: Intelligent and exceptionally brave. One of the most decorated soldiers in imperial history. Frequently cited by peers and former subordinates as one of the Empire's best soldiers. Superb combat leader who commands unquestioning loyalty from his troops and mentor to many young officers._

_Personality Assessment: A scholar and constant learner; balances discipline and encouragement in approach to leadership and teaching. Unbiased views towards personal backgrounds. Stresses importance of independent thinking and initiative. Firmly believes in the moral values of classical chivalry. Enjoys the company of children._

_Recommendation: Promotion to Lieutenant General and a Corps Command._

_Marital Status: __Single, never married__**.**__"_

_Brittanian Army Personnel File #9724839_

_Last Updated: December 29, 2017"_

------

_Somewhere two hundred miles north of Ashfordshire_

Lelouch stood wrapped in his raven black uniform cloak, puffs of white vapor appearing every time he breathed. A strong breeze coming from the mountains stung the exposed portions of his face, his boots sunk in nine inches of hard packed snow. Standing beside him was Jeremiah, wearing a heavy gray overcoat as master and servant observed the exercise taking place in the forests below from their vantage point. Training had resumed in earnest three days after New Years as the expanded Black Knights assumed their duty as a _panzerlehrdivison_ and began educating other units of the Britannian Army on what their European foes were capable of. Naturally, the prince opted to open with the most direct, effective method of instruction: hands-on learning. "Think I should have started more slowly?"

Jeremiah chuckled as he lowered his binoculars. "Nothing cures a hangover better than personal danger." As if to underscore the newly created Viscount's point, a quick succession of explosions took place atop a hill a few miles away. He watched as three knightmare cockpits rocketed into the air before deploying their parachutes and drifting down to safety. "Although the comment about live munitions might have been a bit harsh."

"I was only showing my sense of humor to the newcomers. You don't think they actually took me seriously, do you?"

"I can't speak for everyone, but I thought you might have been, so I didn't correct anyone's misgivings when asked after the briefing."

It was Lelouch's turn to smile. "You are terrible, Brigadier Gottwald."

"I aim to please, my lord."

A few minutes later the thumps of cannon and machinegun fire began to die down. The practice range, a thirty by forty kilometer stretch of thick and hilly woodland, was interspersed with plumes of colored smoke, denoting where knightmare frames and vehicles had been "brewed up." To neither Lelouch nor Jeremiah's surprise, the overwhelming majority of smoke was colored blue, while the number of visible red smoke signals could be counted on one hand. "I think it would be safe to suggest that our guests are enjoying this."

"They're becoming more proficient too." The wail of an air raid siren signaled the end of the exercise. Jeremiah checked the stopwatch in his hand and cursed beneath his breath. "Thirty-eight minutes forty-nine seconds, unbelievable."

Lelouch held out his hand as Jeremiah handed him a folded twenty pound note. They started out the morning by betting on which side would prevail: The advancing blue force, a regiment selected from one of the participating divisions, or the defending red force, composed of three under strength companies of captured Panzer Hummels crewed by Black Knights led by Andreas Darlton—sent by Lieutenant General Cornelia to be an "observer—and two Knights of the Round who had flown in to join the fun. Three rounds later the wager was changed to how long it would take the red force to defeat the numerically superior blue force, with the victory condition set at 50% units disabled. Since the first shot rang out at 6:30AM that morning, Lelouch was ahead of his second in command by sixty pounds. He began walking back towards his new mobile base, where his staff had been keeping track of the influx of video footage and data from the simulated engagement. "C'mon. Let's meet up with them."

------

"Congratulations, gentlemen, you have all just died gloriously in His Majesty's service! Your loved ones will shortly be receiving a pink check in the mail and a letter from the War Department describing how your heroic sacrifice helped preserve the empire's honor."

Major General Darlton paced deliberately before the large group of pilots who stood stiffly in the snow, their Sutherlands—many still smoldering from the pyrotechnics—parked behind them. None of them made eye contact with the fuming general, who had commanded an element of the opposition force and was obviously disgusted by their poor showing. "Curious isn't it, how easily a six million pound knightmare goes up in flames. Now can anyone tell me what factors conspired to wipe out a regiment of Britannia's finest in less time than it takes me to smoke a cigar?"

Darlton paused as he let his words sink in. He knew that Britannian junior officers had proper training which was equal, if not superior, to what their European counterparts received. He also knew that knightmare pilots were a special breed, like the flamboyant hussars of old who roamed the field under Napoleon's banner, and that it was crucial to temper their overconfidence now rather than have the enemy do it later, when the learning curve would be steeper and far more costly. He stopped in front of one doe-eyed noncom. "Sergeant Wilkins, perhaps you would enlighten us."

The young man, though of similar build and height as the physically intimidating General, had a quiver in his voice when he answered this soldier of soldiers who was something of a living legend. "The snow, sir, the snow and mud makes our knightmares difficult to maneuver."

"Very good answer. However, the unfavorable weather affects both sides equally." He turned to the man next to him. "Lieutenant Darryl, please share with us what's on your mind."

"The absence of air cover, sir; normally we'd have called on a nearby cruiser for support."

"Fair enough, but with this overcast and forest, the flyboys are just as likely to incinerate our asses as the enemy's. By the way, ten points off for implying that our success depends upon the air force's availability."

The troop of pilots shared a chuckle, and Darlton continued. "When we go into Europe it is likely that we shall have to fight at a time and place of the enemy's choosing. The weather and terrain will help him, just as it hindered us today. Think about how you can negate his advantages; consult your colleagues in the infantry and artillery. The next exercise is in five days, so review the videos and plan carefully."

"Are you going to be back then, sir?"

"No, General Jeremiah will be your opponent for that round, and don't expect him to show mercy as I have today." The elder man grinned and a chorus of groans arose from the assembled group of young men. "Now, there's an hour till lunch and we are roughly seven kilometers from home. Leave your Sutherlands here and return to base on foot; if I hear that any man tried to hitch a ride all of you will redo the course in full kit. Dismissed!"

Lelouch watched the group take off at a brisk pace as he walked towards the man who taught him most of what he knew about the military arts. "I don't think they were expecting a lesson from the great Andreas Darlton. Thanks for lending a hand."

"My work is my pleasure." The pair made their way towards the assembly area, where a small city of tents, trailers, and temporary buildings had been erected to house equipment and administrative units. "Where are the two youngsters? I haven't seen them since the last exercise ended."

Lelouch filled two mugs with coffee from a dispenser inside a tent. "Gino and Lady Alstreim are in my command center going over their scores. It seems that they had a wager of considerable magnitude."

"They certainly live up to their reputation. I've never seen anyone step into a new knightmare for the first time and pilot it as perfectly as they did."

Lelouch smiled—he could say the same for Darlton as well. "So, how do you like the Panzer?"

"Great piece of equipment. Broad land spinners help it float on mud. Friendly controls and interface, which matters since it's meant to be piloted by conscripts from different countries. Diesel is a good choice too—they've got lots of it and a piston engine is rugged and easy to maintain, if somewhat noisy. It can't dance like a Gloucester but agility is not much of an issue when your strategy is defensive." The General grimaced as he took a sip of the steaming dark brew, scrunching the scar across his face. "This beast was designed to kill Sutherlands and Gloucesters, and it excels in that role."

"The techs have been running a lot of simulations in the past few weeks." The prince stirred two cubes of sugar into his cup and reached for a carton of milk. "They say that on average it will cost us four and a half Sutherlands to destroy a panzer."

"That's encouraging news."

"There's also a rumor that we might have a new frame by this time next year… but you didn't hear that from me." Lelouch blew against the surface of his drink as he kept his eyes towards the tent's entrance; it had started snowing again.

"Anything you can tell me that won't result in MPs knocking on my door at night?"

"I told Schneizel we should copy the panzer for our use. The higher ups relished the irony of it all and I've been put in charge of the project, crash status; I may be doing some traveling in the days ahead."

"You, babysitting researchers and engineers?" The corner of Darlton's mouth curved into a grin as he shook his head. "Word of caution: there's nothing more frustrating than reminding a bunch of PhDs that they're building something a high school kid can hop into and learn to pilot in two weeks. It'll make you old."

Teacher and star pupil shared a chuckle and were joined at that point by the two Knights of the Round, a jubilant Gino draped around the shoulders of his diminutive friend as he mused aloud the outfits he would have her try on as dictated in the terms of their bet. Anya, wearing her typically passive expression, took aim at Lelouch with her camera phone and snapped a picture.

------

_XXII "Black Knights" Division HQ_

"Here is the roster of those we selected for officer school."

Standing just behind her prince, Baroness Villetta Nu placed the documents on the desk in front of Lelouch. He turned over the cover page and scanned the names: over the past week, noncommissioned officers from the Ashfordshire regiment who had college educations and distinguished themselves in combat were offered the chance to attend a ten week course at one of the service academies, at the end of which they'd be commissioned as second lieutenants. The prince's plan was to place these newly minted officers in the two new regiments that would fill out his division. In their place enlisted men in good standing amongst their peers would be promoted to noncoms and similarly redistributed, ensuring that veterans could mix with the recruits while helping the new division become a coherent, familiar force.

However, the dramatic expansion meant that even after extensive promotions from within there remained plenty of places to fill. Thus, Lelouch had spent the past week reading transfer requests of officers who desired to join his command. Many of these came with weighty recommendations: a general's protégé, an influential viscount's nephew, a deputy-minister's grandson. Fortunately, the number of applications meant that Lelouch had the luxury of choosing not only those who were politically connected, but also qualified… or at least possessed enough potential to become useful. When he finally finished going through all the requests, he was satisfied that his new division would never again want for supplies or be forced to halt its advance in order to wait for replacement knightmare frames.

He signed the document and handed it to Villetta, who filed it into her folder and placed another before him. "Here is the Table of Organization and Equipment for the division."

Lelouch signed this as well. "Anything else?"

"One more." This time, the front page of the document contained a photo in the upper left corner. "He was in today's exercises as a part of the blue force, survived all three rounds he participated in and had four panzers to his credit."

Lelouch's eyes widened when he read the name. "Where is he now?"

"Waiting outside. Should I show him in?"

The Black Prince nodded. A minute later, a young man with curly brown hair and perhaps several years his senior stood at attention before him.

"At ease, Captain." The officer wore a distinct maroon suit which separated him from regular knightmare pilots. "Why do you wish to be in my division?"

"I want to serve with the best, sir."

"I'll consider that a compliment, knowing who you've been with until now." Lelouch leaned forward in his seat as he examined the young man more closely. "You do know that your father and I are close friends."

Claudio Salieri Darlton—Andreas' Darlton's oldest son and unofficial leader of the Glaston Knights—nodded in reply. "I'm aware, sir."

"I didn't hear him mention that you were interested in joining us."

"My father doesn't know I'm here, sir."

The Black Prince lifted his brows and began drumming his fingers lightly against the table's edge; he knew something of the Glaston Knights, and he was becoming more impressed by the minute after meeting one in person. A minute later he made up his mind and rose from his seat. "Well captain, aside from your resume, I'd say you earned a place with us by your performance today. Out of respect to your father however I will still have to notify him; knowing him I doubt he would object much."

Claudio smiled for the first time since entering the room, his face lighting up like a normal youth would. "Thank you very much, sir! I won't let you down."

"You're dismissed."

When the pilot had closed the door behind him, Lelouch turned to the woman besides him. "What do you think?"

"I think we could have him running a battalion soon."

"I agree."

----

_Chateau de Bourbon,_

_Residence of the Knight of Ten_

The estate which housed one of the most dreaded men in the Empire was a mirror upon its owner's personality, from its black steel gates tipped with rusty spear points to its bleak interior, where furniture and drapery centuries old were poorly kept, as though to discourage visitors from expecting hospitality. Outdoors, weeds and overgrowth were allowed to ravage what used to be a stately garden, for its current owner had no use for things of beauty. The Chateau was once home to a descendant from the French ruling family, which fled to England during the republican Reign of Terror. From there they crossed to America after revolutionary forces seized the British Isles. A decade after settling in the New World, an ill-conceived plot to raise a royalist army and use the Caribbean Islands as a base for retaking France was uncovered by the Duke of Britannia's agents. Thus the storied dynasty which survived the fate of the Paris mob's guillotine met its end at the edge of an Anglo executioner's axe.

The chateau remained empty for decades afterwards. Those brave enough to move in soon moved out after a string of ghastly incidents; the place was said to be haunted by the blood of the Bourbons and shunned. Luciano Bradley acquired the estate soon after his elevation to the Knights of the Round, famously declaring that if indeed the grounds were cursed he would evict whatever spirits resided there, for the ghosts of the men he killed surrounded him like legion and were far more harrowing than the apparitions of a royal family that was dumb enough to let themselves be beheaded.

Lelouch watched the proceedings from his seat in the grandstand; he had requested a meeting with the Knight of Ten a week ago and just received a call last night from the man's butler, who stated plainly that Lord Luciano had been busy, but would meet the prince if his highness would come to his home at four in the afternoon. The knight's flippant reply incensed him, but Lelouch swallowed his anger and came as directed, partly out of curiosity of what led society to dub the man the Vampire of Britannia. Presently, Luciano stood alone in a circular arena located beneath the Chateau. In the echoing chamber, Lelouch could hear chains grating against metal and muted sounds of human confinement. In fact, the whole underground had been remodeled to resemble a miniature Roman coliseum.

"Raise the gates!" At Luciano's command, one of three iron gates at the opposite end of the arena opened and a large man in ragged clothing emerged, armed with a shield and a curved scimitar in the other hand.

The Knight of Ten unsheathed his weapon, a basket-hilted broadsword which he pointed towards the challenger. The man gave a savage cry and charged, and soon the underground space was reverberating with the sound of steel clashing against steel. Lelouch could see that the man—whom he had been informed was a death row inmate—had some training and was athletic for his size, coming close on several occasions to connecting with his target. The knight stayed just out of reach however, and a few minutes passed before the prince realized that Luciano was toying with his victim. At the first sign of fatigue, the knight sidestepped a downward slice and disarmed his foe with lightning speed. The scimitar and shield fell to ground and the prisoner was forced to his knees with the tip of Luciano's sword pointing at his throat.

The match was clearly over, but Luciano was not finished; with a smile full of glee, he thrust his sword forward through the man's jugular and out the back of his neck. For a few seconds the inmate gurgled as he suffocated in his own blood, but then the knight placed his boot heel against his chest and kicked the prisoner onto his back, pulling his blade free at the same time. A fountain of red erupted briefly and a short while later the man ceased writhing. Lelouch, in spite of feeling sick to his stomach, began to clap, and Luciano took a bow towards his audience. "Thank you, thank you! Too kind, your highness."

The prince joined his host on the grounds of the arena. Servants appeared to drag the body away while others shoveled the blood-soaked sand onto a cart and replaced the spot with fresh sand. Luciano accepted a towel from one of the servants to dab at the perspiration on his forehead. "I exercise like this at least once every other week, else one loses the touch, you know?"

"Your skill was most impressive, Lord Bradley."

"The problem is finding good partners to practice with. Your average condemned man is a right sorry lot; most won't fight even if you gave them a chance at redemption. I had hoped that this recent war would make available to me many prisoners, but you traded away every last one in some fool exchange."

Lelouch gave his most professional smile. "I apologize, at the time I did not know of your exercise habits."

"Hmph." The knight threw his towel at a servant and began walking towards the exit as the prince trailed him. "I can't fathom why the Emperor lets his children off to play soldier while he keeps us here, an utter waste of resources if you ask me."

Lelouch smiled icily; in so many years, he had never dealt with anyone who was so brazenly disrespectful. Cornelia, who rarely employed foul language even when angry, had called Luciano an egregious ass. He wondered how the Knight of Ten behaved in the company of his colleagues and Charles Britannia. "There is something I would like to speak to you about."

"Yeah? What?"

They walked into the elevator which connected the underground cavern with the mansion overhead. "There is a girl by the name of Marika Soresi, she works for you."

Luciano tilted his head as though trying to remember. "Ah yes, the redheaded one. What of her?"

"I was hoping you could transfer her to my command. She is the younger sister of a man who served me, and I promised to look after her if anything should happen to him." This was a lie, but Lelouch felt that a sincere approach to a man like this would only backfire.

A ring signaled that they had arrived at ground level and the pair stepped out into a room lit by natural daylight. The knight walked into the kitchen where he retrieved a bottle of wine and tore a leg off a half-eaten turkey on the counter, biting off a chunk and replying as he chewed. "Pardon me, your highness, but she's a valuable asset to me. Finding a replacement for her in the Valkyries would be difficult, if not impossible."

"I understand perfectly. Kewell Soresi was one of my most loyal servants, and if you were to assist me on this matter I would be extremely grateful."

Luciano lifted the bottle to his lips and wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know that wealth and titles mean little to me."

"Oh, perish the thought. I would never think of offering things you already have in abundance." But Lelouch did consider, and after coming today he quickly arrived at the conclusion that bribes of money and power would have no effect whatsoever—this man thrived only on violence and destruction. He loathed him already, but knowing that Luciano was an animal gave him leverage to work with. "I can give you what you want most."

"Go on." In spite of the suspicious scowl, the knight could not conceal the interest in his tone.

"You know my reputation. You know my association with a certain circle of influential figures, the Chancellor among them." Lelouch paused, waiting until he was sure that his audience had swallowed the bait whole. "There are parts of Africa bordering on our holdings which are embroiled in civil war. The thought of armed gangs in our backyard makes us all nervous, especially when we are in a war of our own. However, we cannot spare military forces to pacify the region. If I were to make the suggestion to certain individuals—to send one of the Knights of the Round to convince the juntas to cease their senseless violence—I believe their words would persuade the Emperor to give the authorization. I don't imagine there would be many restrictive rules of engagement either; the warring factions are equally brutal towards their own and each other, and no one would miss them terribly if they were gone."

Luciano swallowed; the thought of such an epic orgy of bloodshed made him salivate. "You're sure you can get me picked for this job?"

"I'm certain." He didn't add that no other member of the Knights was likely to volunteer.

After that it didn't take long for the Knight of Ten to make up his mind. "Fine, you can have the girl, but if I don't get what I want I'll be coming for you, your powerful friends and your pretty reputation be damned."

The Black Prince knew that was a bluff; even a Knight of the Round could not kill a prince without permission, and that wasn't likely to happen so long as he proved useful to Charles. And if his assessment was wrong—if Sir Luciano Bradley was even more maniacal than he appeared—well, Lelouch was pretty confident in his ability to put down a mad dog too.

------

_Aeries Palace_

Lelouch opened the door to Nunally's bedroom; his day which began at 4:30AM ended with a dance and dinner party hosted by a duchess who was one of the leading socialites in Pendragon. There he was obliged to dance in every round, flattering his hostess—whose husband was a member of the Emperor's inner council—by asking her granddaughter to be his partner twice. By the time the prince came home it was midnight and he was completely exhausted.

Taking extra care to remain silent, he sat down on her bed. Today, like many other days since he returned to Britannia, he rose before Nunally did and came home after she was asleep.

"Brother?"

_Not silent enough._ Lelouch turned on the lamp on the nightstand. "Sorry for waking you."

Nunally gently shook her head and turned her face towards the direction of Lelouch's voice. The truth was that she had gotten used to his routine, and often laid awake in bed in case he came home at a reasonable hour. "It's alright. How was your day?"

"Busy." He brushed her cheek with the back of his finger and she covered his hand with hers. "I may have some free time in a few days. Perhaps we can do something together, a picnic at the park, a concert, anything you like."

"Really?"

"Really. I'll dump everything on Jeremiah and the two of us will escape somewhere where no one can find us. If the Europeans invade then they'll just have to do without me."

The princess giggled. "Poor Jeremiah. You're working him too hard."

Lelouch's smile dimmed a bit—with Kewell gone, there was little choice for those left but to take on extra responsibilities until a replacement was found. Claudio was promising, but he too would take time to adjust to the Division's workings. "Things will get better. We're just training units now, so we shouldn't be sent to the front lines for many months."

"I'm glad." Nunally drew herself closer to her brother's hand as she continued in a soft voice. "Even though sister Euphie was here… I felt lonely during the months when you were away."

Lelouch knew better than anyone how hard Nunally tried not to be a burden to him. She was remarkably mature and more sensitive to the feelings of others than typical girls her age despite her disability. She never demanded any of his time, understanding the many obligations he had, all of which made her confession lodge deep into the prince's conscience. "I won't leave you, Nunally; if I do I'll always return to you. You know that, right?"

The princess smiled as she gave his fingers a squeeze. "I know."

Lelouch bent down and kissed her on the forehead. "Goodnight, princess."

"Goodnight, brother."

------

Lelouch sank into the chair in his study and stretched his legs out under the desk. In front of him were another dozen social invitations from people he barely knew—prestige had its privileges but also its price. He tossed them back onto the table without reading any; at the moment, the mere thought of a waltz gave him a migraine.

Walking towards a wall of bookshelves, he pulled out the copy of _Count of Monte Cristo_ in which he hid his list of names. Unfolding the well-creased document, he saw that over the course of six years he had crossed out close to half of the names written there, all of whom had no connection to his mother's murder. A large bloc had been removed with the recent demise of Geoffrey and Alfred's clan, and though he had good reason to suspect that they were behind the attempt on his life, that was probably out of jealousy unrelated to Marianne's death. The fact that they had failed so miserably also lessened the probability that they were responsible for the assassination attempt six years ago. As the list was reduced inquiries became more difficult, and there was always the possibility that no one on the list had the answer he sought, perhaps not even Charles Britannia himself.

Lelouch replaced the page back in its hiding place and returned to his seat. He knew he was tired, that he had not had any period of real rest in nearly nine months, and he was approaching his limit. Unlocking the center drawer in his desk, he opened it and took out a manila folder with the words 'Project Camelot' printed on the front along with the red label 'Most Confidential.' He also took out the letter he received from Clovis yesterday morning, which he reread now. When he was finished he sank back deeper into his chair. In their last conversation Schneizel had made clear to him that he would like him to go to Area Eleven: The presence of the Black Prince alone would serve as a stabilizing force in the region, dissuading the Chinese Federation from trying anything funny while tying down a large number of EU forces in the Far East. At least, that was the plan.

He also wanted Lelouch to help oversee the Camelot Project, hastening its completion if possible, for the leader of the project on which the Empire's fate rested was an easily distracted man, who didn't care much about schedules and costs as long he could continue to tweak and improve what he thought was _his_ project. Nevertheless, Schneizel assured him these would not become orders, but it would be a great help if Lelouch could go, especially since XXII Division would not be operational or deployed for some time.

Clovis' letter was completely unrelated; the third prince talked about the imminent completion of a theme park he designed and invited Lelouch to take an extended vacation in the beautiful Area once known as Japan. Not mentioned was the governor's hope that his younger brother would help him deal with the local rebels who had become increasingly active after the war against the EU started. Lelouch knew this because over Christmas Clovis often lamented about how stubborn these guerrillas were, some of whom were remnants from the Japanese Army, only to be scolded by Cornelia for not taking proper care of his area of responsibility.

Lelouch rested his chin in his hand as he weighed the matter over: The priority of overseeing his division's reorganization was not imperative compared to what Schneizel asked of him. He had already selected the officers, and the details of training and logistics, though important, could be taken care of by Jeremiah and his divisional staff, who by now were experts at management. The idea of a long holiday with Nunally, spent away from the concentration of aristocrats and their social events in Pendragon, sounded particularly enticing, and the more Lelouch dwelled on the matter the more he was tempted to leave.

Ten minutes later, the prince picked up the phone on his desk and pressed a speed-dial button which connected him to a secretary who promptly redirected his call. A couple of seconds of baroque music went by, and then the other end picked up.

"Hello, Clovis. About your offer…"

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **Happy new years, everyone! Yet another quick update, but as the new semester looms I'll probably return to my regular schedule of once every three to four weeks. I hope that won't be too upsetting.

The idea for Darlton's middle name came from the fact that Darlton is the name of a village in Nottinghamshire, England; Sherwood Forest, of Robin Hood fame, is very close by; for those who are interested, Andreas is the Greek form of Andrew, which happens to mean "man" or "warrior." I picture Darlton as a scholar officer who represents the best side of the Britannian military—most of these guys were bad people. There will be more in the future about Darlton's past and how he met Cornelia.

A few of you guys have mentioned the Glaston Knights: I'm using one of the five in what I hope won't turn out to be an extensive role, because these guys are so minor they'd practically be original characters if I wrote about them. I'm forced to infer a background and personality from just one picture on the official Japanese website (geass . jp/world_03_?pid=chara_36, add html at the end). Claudio is the one standing in the middle, with the most mature expression, so I guessed he was the "leader" of this boy band. Claudio's middle name, Salieri (the official website gives his middle initial as S), is the name of a famous Italian composer whose students included Beethoven, Liszt, Schubert, and Mozart's youngest child. I used an Italian name because Claudio is an Italian name. Claudio's expression (compared to his siblings') also makes me think that he's the Boy Scout type: loyal, hard working, idealistic, looks up to daddy as his hero, etc, but at that point I'm going out on a limb.

This chapter also introduces the infamous Knight of Ten, Luciano Bradley. I hope my interpretation of his character was convincing. Marika, here on the left, (geass . jp/world_03_?pid=chara_56) will become a more regular figure as well, though I haven't decided to what extent. She's cute though, and I recall how many fans online were very upset when she died after two seconds and one line. That's all for now, until next time, and we're on to Japan!


	20. The Marriage Meeting

**Chapter 20: The Marriage Meeting  
**

""_Whether you desire an extended holiday or a romantic getaway, Area Eleven is the perfect destination for you. Today, the former isles of Japan are a blend of the ancient and modern that offers something for everyone. Here are just some reasons to visit:_

_Sample fruits from the surrounding seas and delicacies like Kobe beef and Matsutake mushrooms. Treat your partner to one of 209 Michelin starred restaurants in Tokyo alone. Enjoy local cuisines that have inspired chefs around the world and been lauded as edible works of art._

_Dazzle yourself with the cherry blossoms of Spring, soak in the greenery of Summer and fiery colors of Autumn, and admire the white wonders of Winter while soaking in a hot spring. Every season in Area Eleven is a whole new experience, prompting visitors to return for more._

_Take the family to Clovis Land, the world's newest amusement park. Witness the spectacle of a Medieval Tournament, dine at King Arthur's Round Table, and embark on a quest with Captain Britannia. At night, view fireworks from atop the world's tallest Ferris wheel with your special someone. Don't miss out the Clovis Land Tropical Resort, where our solar dome guarantees beach weather and healthy tans all year around. _

_Come listen to the New Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra led by director and principal conductor Shinichi Chiaki, the world renowned maestro with distinguished tenures at Paris and Vienna. A rich gathering of opera, ballet, and Broadway companies ensures that you shall never want for evening entertainment. _

_Coupled with the courtesy and hospitality which the people of Area Eleven are famous for, your trip is bound to be a memory of a lifetime. Contact your travel agent today and come see the wonder that is Area Eleven!_

_Yours_

_Clovis L. Britannia_

_His Imperial Majesty's Governor of Area Eleven."_

_From brochure published and distributed by the Areas Tourism Bureau, February 2017."_

------

_Ashford Academy, Private Institute of Higher Learning_

"She's late."

Two girls and one boy sat facing one another as they waited for their leader. Outside, the sound of students heading to after school activities filtered into the club room. Shirley Fenette had her gym bag in her lap as she fixed the straps on a new pair of swimming goggles. Nina Einstein stared into her laptop as she typed away wordlessly. Rivalz Cardemonde propped his feet on the table with his arms folded behind his head. "Shirley."

"Yes?"

"Did Milly mention if she had other plans this afternoon?"

The girl tilted her face in thought and then shook her head.

The young man looked at the clock—the rule was that if the president of the student council was twenty minutes late the members could adjourn. Rivalz sighed deeply as he leaned back further, tilting his chair onto two legs. "Looks like we won't be doing much today. To think that I even traded shifts at work in order to come."

"Um, it's dangerous if you…"

"Hello, my children!"

The door to the council room flew open with a slam, knocking a surprised Rivalz off balance and sending him crashing onto his back. A spirited young woman marched in with quick long strides and deposited an armful of binders in the middle of the desk with a huff. "Here are the forms submitted by the student groups for the new semester. They need to be answered by next Tuesday. Also coming up is the freshmen spring festival. Rivalz, why are you napping on the floor?"

"Oww... Not napping, I fell."

"Let's be more careful shall we? Now, I'll be gone for the rest of today, so Shirley, I'm leaving you in charge."

Rivalz picked himself up and winced as he touched the tender lump behind his head. He stared at the hefty pile with dread: There were five members on the council which coordinated events for 1200 students in the high school section alone, and one of them was practically a ghost member. "Queen" Milly's enthusiasm for her job made her the equal of five workers when she was in the spirit of things, but that was as unpredictable as the weather. "There's no way we can finish this with just three people."

"It's not about numbers, Rivalz, it's about guts! Show some heart, put on some elbow grease, puff out that manly chest of yours."

"Man… manly?" The student council president's words had a transforming effect on the boy, who broke out into a light-headed grin and began to attack the stack of doom.

"That's it, pour it on, lad, show that paperwork who's boss!" The leggy blonde gave him a slap of encouragement before turning to her two girl friends. "I'm counting on you. I'll even bake a cake for next time, so work hard."

The girls nodded. "Where are you going this afternoon, Milly?"

"Oh the usual, off to meet another gentleman who has fallen under my spell." She winked over her shoulder before waving goodbye. "Au revoir!"

After the door closed, Rivalz—who had been churning ahead at full steam two seconds ago—ground to a halt as a deflated expression spread across his face.

"Not again!"

--------------

A black cab waited for Milly outside the gates of campus. Following their move to Area Eleven the Ashford Group scaled back their staff as they adjusted to their new financial reality. Gone were the uniformed chauffeurs and their shining limos as members of the family learned to drive themselves once more. This did not bother Milly at all, for she lived mere minutes away from school by foot, where she spent more time than she did at home. It was only on occasions like these that her parents hired a car to transport her, for it would not do at all if the heir to the Ashfords took public transportation to meet her distinguished suitors. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

An elder Japanese girl was seated inside the car and replied with a demure smile. "Not at all, my lady."

The pair was shortly on their way. Milly accepted the makeup kit from her maid and began to apply herself. She did not wear cosmetics on a daily basis but learned out of necessity and in time had become proficient at doing so. Meanwhile, her helper began work on her hair. "Bun or twist?"

Milly frowned. "Couldn't I just leave it down?"

"In that case I have just the thing."

Sayoko lifted the cover off a box and produced a floppy white sun hat with a bow and ribbon. Her mistress nodded in approval. "Let's go with that. What am I wearing?"

"The Madam gave me this last night. She had it specially made."

"Talk about beating a dead horse; one would think she'd have learned by now." Milly raised her brow as she inspected the stylish dress, knowing even without putting it on that the outfit would accentuate the wearer's most outstanding features—her mother was going all out this time. "Sayoko, why won't mother give up on me already and go bait an old viscount herself?"

"For one, the madam is stubborn just like you. I also imagine the master would strongly disapprove."

"But not if it's his own daughter?"

"They have the family's best interest in mind, my lady."

_And that was what it all came down to, wasn't it?_

Milly returned the dress to Sayoko, taking care not to rumple the fabric. Seven years had past since their exile, and though their remaining assets were sufficient to maintain a comfortable life style, the expulsion from the aristocracy was still keenly felt by many in the clan. The only ones who welcomed the less conspicuous life style were Reuben Ashford and herself, but her aging grandfather increasingly left policy decisions to the younger generation—Milly was the instrument of those decisions.

The cab pulled off the highway and continued away from the skylines of Tokyo. Fifteen minutes later the Crystal Palace came into view, a replica of the magnificent glass structure which showcased the Great Exhibition and many World Fairs more than 150 years ago. Seated in the midst of sprawling parklands, the Palace was Governor Clovis' first major construction project after the conquest of Area Eleven. Prioritized ahead of even repairs to essential infrastructure, the Palace heralded the arrival of a new era of splendor and _Pax Britannia_.

Descending before the front entrance, the two women purchased their tickets and headed to the cloakroom, which included changing stalls for the convenience of visitors. For though the exterior of the Palace was a faithful tribute to its predecessor, the interior incorporated the latest advances in gardening technique and climate control. Thus, even though Japan in February remained in the grips of cold wintry weather, inside, plants and flowers flourished as if in spring, and visitors shed their heavy coats and jackets as soon as they entered.

When she finished changing, Milly turned and inspected herself in the mirror—gone was the free spirited school girl, replaced by the facade of an attractive young woman of marriageable age. "How do I look?"

"You look beautiful, my lady."

She managed a small smile, knowing that it was the truth even if she had no one to look beautiful for.

Heads turned as the pair left the cloakroom; men followed Milly with their eyes until their annoyed female companions reminded them who they should be paying attention to. Looks of admiration turned dubious when they saw the maid who trailed respectfully after her lady. Though many living in Japan employed native servants, it was rare for an Eleven to occupy the esteemed post of a Lady's Maid. This controversy had drawn even more attention to the Ashford girl when she was already a fixture of the social scene amongst affluent Britannians in Tokyo.

The Crystal Palace had only a light weekday crowd, and the two soon reached the agreed upon meeting place, a park filled with Sakura trees at the peak of bloom. This section of the Palace, ingeniously constructed to accommodate a rotation of mature trees to the effect of constant flowering, was a favorite of visitors and one of Clovis' proudest accomplishments. Milly knew the place well, for this was the very place where she famously (notoriously) jilted several of her suitors to the dismay of her parents and the delight of gossipers. She sat on a curved bench beneath a lamppost and waited for her date—an heir to a baron's title—to arrive.

Milly's first arranged meeting took place when she turned sixteen, the same day she made her debut. She remembered how quickly the novelty of balls and parties had worn off, when she was introduced to one man after another who were two, three times her age; when the demands of adult society crowded out time with her friends and her beloved school. It had been the most unhappy time of her life, marred by lectures and arguments and angry tears—in the months after she turned sixteen, Milly cried more than she had up till that point in her life.

But she was determined not to wallow in self pity. Through protests and concessions she worked out a compromise: space for her own life while fulfilling her obligation to the Ashfords. In return for autonomy, Milly would continue to participate in society on behalf of the family and make herself available to suitable candidates interested in her.

It was the second half of this unwritten agreement that she breached most frequently, for her parents—her mother in particular—was not above sly designs of their own. Thus did the horror stories from Milly's marriage meetings arise; of gentlemen's wigs snagged off by fishing hooks and trousers glued fast to their seats. Some of the stories were false, fanciful tales made up by idle ladies. Many of them were true, and today she brought a pack of sneezing powder that was perfect for the occasion, since she could deny involvement by blaming the blooming flora within the enclosed space. The student council president smiled, mentally congratulating herself for planning ahead.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I was wondering if you would care to join me and my fellows for tea?"

A young man in a blazer, probably a college student, stood before her. Milly had long since learned that one of the most important skills a woman could have was how to say no nicely. "That sounds wonderful, but I'm afraid I'm waiting for someone already. Thank you for the invitation."

He tipped his hat shyly and returned to his friends who waited a short distance away and were quick to welcome him back with pats on the back and obligatory digs. Milly felt a little sorry for him—she turned everyone down, but it was harder turning down the nice ones.

"Is this seat taken?"

Milly resisted the urge to smile—the boys were trying hard today. "No, please feel free…"

The young man who sat down beside her wore a light coffee suit and a bowler hat which hid much of his dark hair. Memories of a little boy with a big scowl overlapped with the face on television and newspaper clippings. Her mouth opened as recognition dawned upon her.

"… Lelouch?"

Small pink flakes floated down from the cherry trees, and with deliberate care that made her heart skip the prince reached out and brushed away a petal that had landed on her shoulder.

"Hello, Milly. It's been a long time."

-------

While unaffected by the attentions she received before, walking with Lelouch made Milly feel increasingly self-conscious. In the midst of their stroll, a silver-haired couple greeted them with the kind of smile which comes only from sentimental elders reminded of their own youth. As they made their way through the exhibits, Lelouch informed her that due to unforeseen circumstances, her date was unable to show up, and since he happened to be in the neighborhood he thought he would come catch up with an old friend. When she questioned how he found out about her meeting he had simply replied "Your grandfather."

When the prince paused to admire a Roman fountain, Milly glanced back and saw that Sayoko—who read the change in atmosphere and excused herself—stayed nearby but outside of earshot. Settled somewhat by the sight of her faithful servant, she turned back to her companion. "So, what's the reason for your visit? Business? Pleasure?"

"Both. Nunally and I needed a vacation and I have some work-related matters to see to. We will be here for some time." He folded his hands behind his back. "You don't seem particularly happy to see me. Disappointed that your date isn't coming?"

He was answered with a cheerful smile. "Not at all, I would take you over a thousand dates any time."

The prince's smugness vanished as he cleared his throat. "I heard from Reuben about the trouble you've been having."

"And what trouble might that be?"

"It seems that your parents have been trying to find you a husband for some time."

She decided to play dumb. "Are you suggesting that there are no takers for Milly Ashford? Because if you are…"

"On the contrary, I hear that there are many takers. Clovis, who is quite knowledgeable about the going-ons here, informs me as much."

Milly recalled meeting the third prince on several occasions; he was one of the few men who wouldn't ogle her when she happened to wear a particularly risqué outfit. "I'm flattered the governor has heard of me."

"I also heard that the last man your parents tried to set you up with had an unfortunate accident with the fondue and suffered mild burns."

Lelouch chuckled and Milly winced inwardly—she hadn't expected the melted cheese to be _that_ hot. "Accidents do happen."

"Especially to the dozens of noblemen who take an interest in the daughter of the Ashford Family, all who invariably lose their interest after meeting her."

"A determined few came back for seconds, but I have yet to see someone try three times." She sighed, knowing that his grandfather would have told Lelouch everything. "I don't always resort to making a scene; with a true gentleman a sincere apology will do, but true gentlemen are rare these days."

"As are true ladies, apparently."

"Touché_._" She smiled: When her day began Milly would never have imagined that she would be enjoying herself as she did now. "Speaking of manners, it was rather unkind of you to call not even once in seven years."

"My apologies. My contact with the world outside the palace was restricted for a long time. By the time I was free to act on my own the war broke out, and you can imagine the distraction that was."

Milly nodded; the Black Prince's exploits and his subsequent ascent dominated conversations at dinner parties for weeks. Of course, everyone had forgotten that the celebrated prince's deceased mother had been sponsored by the Ashford Group. Milly was glad no one brought the subject up, because after so many years without a word, she had been afraid that Lelouch had forgotten them as well.

The two sat down along the banks of a stream to rest. Without the distraction of walking and small talk, Milly's thoughts began to drift: She was happy to see him, but while his appearance would seem to many like the prelude to a romantic fairytale, Milly did not believe in fairytales. She was by nature a pragmatic person, and when the reality of her station in life was made clear to her years ago she made the best of things and bargained for her freedom until at least the end of high school. Overtime, she came to understand and accept the responsibilities she owed, and it was this resignation that enabled her to bear the thought of what was to come. However, seeing Lelouch again changed things; her resignation began to crumble. She entertained thoughts of Maybes and What Ifs.

In short, she began to hope again.

"Milly?" Lelouch watched his friend with concern. "You've been staring into nothing for five minutes. Is something the matter?"

"Um, nothing! I was just thinking about what else you and Grandfather talked about. It's beginning to sound like my secrets are no longer safe with him."

The corner of the prince's lips curled up in amusement. "You know that I've been created a Duke, right?"

"Of course, it was all over the news."

"It is custom that when a nobleman receives a second title, he retains only the higher one for himself; the remainder is passed to a second child or returned to the Crown." She nodded and he continued. "Now that I am a Duke, retaining the Earldom of Ashfordshire would be bad form since I have no children. That is what I came to see you and your grandfather about."

Milly blinked. She wasn't quite sure what he meant. No, she knew _perfectly_ what he meant. It made sense and yet it didn't. It was too sudden, and she couldn't believe what was happening even if she was tempted to and they were still young and she had never…

"I've sold the title Earl of Ashfordshire to your grandfather."

"… Eh?"

"A title from the sovereign cannot be gifted away, but buying and selling them is as old a practice as feudalism itself." The prince reached inside his jacket and produced a document. "Some in Pendragon will raise a stink over this, since nowadays sales are only supposed to happen when a noble becomes bankrupt, but it is perfectly legal."

When she unfolded the letter she saw that it was a copy of a signed contract. "… I, Lelouch Vi Britannia, hereby transfer the title Earl of Ashfordshire, with all styles, privileges, and entitlements, to Reuben Knowles Ashford, in return for the sum of… one penny?"

Milly's burst of laughter caught Lelouch off guard. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry, it's just… I've never heard of anyone selling a title worth a fortune for a penny. Are you sure about this?"

"Of course, the title belonged to your family. I'm just restoring things to the way they were. Do you know what else this means?"

"Enlighten me."

"You'll never have to have a marriage meeting again." While she sat staring, Lelouch continued. "Even though rules structuring the title's creation keep you from personally inheriting, it will pass onto your offspring and stay with the Ashfords."

"That means…"

"Your family's fortune is secure. You can marry whomever you please, whenever you please." His gaze met hers and softened. "You're free, Milly."

For a while Milly was unable to speak as she absorbed the news. When realization finally sank in, she was overcome by such a feeling of relief that she didn't notice her moist eyes until he gave her his handkerchief. She accepted gratefully—she always kept her grief to herself in tough times and never let anyone see her cry, but this was different. "I'm sorry, I think… the pollen must have gotten to me."

"Indeed, the allergies can be vicious this time of the year."

All around, families, couples, and other pleasure seekers went about their strolls, luxuriating in the cozy manmade weather and leaving the two youngsters in relative peace, and for the next few minutes the amiable silence was punctuated only by the sound of the occasional sniffle. After blowing her nose one last time, Milly took a deep breath and turned on Lelouch, who was surprised to find a look of discontent on her face. "So, what do you plan to do about this?"

"What do you mean?"

"How are you going to pay me back for my losses?"

The prince looked back dumbly. "What losses?"

"For ruining everything when I had a good thing going. Look here: So long as I agreed to stay in the marriage market I had a nearly free budget for clothes. Men brought me flowers. I was treated to restaurants with month-long waiting lists. I got tickets to sold out shows. In fact, I believe my date today promised box seats for tonight's premier of _The Barber of Venice_. How are you going to make all this up to me?"

"But I thought…"

"You thought you were rescuing the damsel in distress? Well, I appreciate that, truly I do, but how will I get men to line up so I can pick prince charming now?"

Cowed by her rapid delivery, Lelouch scooted away as a wrinkle formed between his brows—instead of receiving thanks for his generosity he found himself forced to defend his actions. Not one to take anything lying down, the prince regained himself and replied coolly.

"You know, I've _seen_ all fifty-nine princes in real life, and I can tell you that most of them are insipid, stupid and dreadfully dull. Objectively speaking, I am arguably the most accomplished and sophisticated of them all. So if you're serious about finding "prince charming," chances are you're already looking at him."

Milly appeared to ponder this. Lelouch grew nervous as she tilted her head back and forth, as though she was the judge at a dog show and he was an entry on the inspection stand.

And then, with only a mischievous smile as a warning, she leaned in and kissed him.

Lelouch's face reddened instantly as he fell out of his seat. "Wha… wha…?"

She tapped a finger against her shoulder in deliberation. "Hmmm… nope, I'm afraid you won't do at all."

He finally managed to form a coherent word. "What?"

"You kept your eyes open, you were stiff as a log and had no feeling whatsoever. I felt like I was kissing a wet can of tuna." Milly clicked her tongue and shook her head. "You've got a ways to go before you can be prince charming."

"That's absurd!"

"What, that you're not prince charming?"

"No! Wait, I mean… oh that doesn't matter. How could you do such a thing?"

"What? It was just a kiss, you haven't lost anything." Then a thought occurred to her. "This wasn't your first, was it?"

He sputtered and turned an even deeper shade of red. Milly was surprised by his response and became embarrassed herself. "I… well, considering that was also my first, what say we call it even and leave it at that?"

Lelouch sank back onto the bench. The comfortable silence a few minutes ago became awkward as each was left to his and her own thoughts. The prince squeezed his eyes shut as he covered his face; he suddenly felt very tired.

To the relief of both sides, Sayoko's appearance broke the impasse. "My lady, pardon me for interrupting, but it is almost time for us to return."

"Thank you." The maid bowed and left. A short while later Milly rose to her feet, still blushing slightly as she stretched deliciously. "I suppose I must be leaving."

"… I see."

"Will we meet again?"

Lelouch sighed deeply; he was not the kind to cry over spilt milk, and like she said, it wasn't as though he lost anything. "I don't want Nunally to be alone when I'm busy in the days ahead, so I plan on having her attend Ashford Academy. She hasn't had many opportunities to make friends and I feel it will be a good experience for her." Lelouch looked up. "Can I trust you to look after her?"

"Of course, we'll have lots of fun."

"Then I'm sure we'll be seeing each other quite often."

They smiled. In the distance, Sayoko appeared near the front entrance, signaling that the car had arrived. Lelouch walked Milly to her ride, and as they passed through the revolving doors, she turned to him. "Back there, you said I could marry whomever I pleased, right?"

"What about it?"

"Promise you won't take that back?"

He wasn't sure where she was going with this. Outside, the temperature dropped dramatically and the wind nipped and colored their cheeks. "I told you, didn't I? You're free now. You can do as you wish."

A cat-like smile formed on her lips. "I hope you won't regret those words in the future."

Left standing without a clue, Lelouch watched as the cab pulled away. When the car came around in the looped driveway, he was surprised to see her leaning out the window, golden strands trailing in the wind and waving.

"Oh and Lelouch, welcome to Area Eleven!"

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: It's been a long a journey: Thank you all for reading Lelouch of Britannia. Please look forward to my next work.**

*

*

*

*

*

*

JUST KIDDING. That was for anyone who might have thought "They kissed. It's all over now." I know many people feel strongly about pairings, and I stick by my earlier claim that this story will explore several; that means the story tag will not change to include Milly A. Some readers have commented that I am biased towards her. It's true that while watching CG Milly made me very happy, but this has to be qualified because many leading characters had terrible fates, were handled poorly by the producers towards the end, or were simply asses. From that cesspool of angst and snark, Milly was a breath of fresh air. That's one reason why she has a bigger role in this story. That said, the rate at which characters will be introduced will increase in the chapters ahead, so look forward to that.

Nothing comes easily for me, but this chapter was especially hard to write. The War-Political Drama genre now meshes with School Romantic Comedy, and the transition was difficult. Much credit goes to one of my betas who asked to remain anonymous, for acting as my sounding board and helping me work through difficult details. I appreciate reader feedback pointing out how my story is sometimes hard to read. I'll work on that in the future. Thank you all for reading… and until next time.

Songs listened to while writing this chapter: Chobits OP and "Haru no Omoide" from The Cat Returns soundtrack.


	21. The Prince, the Private and the Earl

**Chapter 21: The Prince, the Private, and the Earl  
**

""… _Now as Idealist was walking on his own, he espied a curious pair afar by the road. The man's name was Eccentric, a four-eyed noble of fanciful ideas who passed his days tinkering with gears and bolts. The woman's name was Longsuffering, Eccentric's attendant. As they crossed the way of each other, Eccentric beheld the young man's purposeful gait and the light of his eyes and began thus to enter into some talk with Idealist._

_Eccentric: "How now, good fellow, whither away are thou headed?"_

_Idealist: "To yonder Town where the Black Prince pitches camp. He means to embark on a quest and many have come afar to join his banner."_

_Longsuffering, a patient and stout-willed woman, addressed the youth: "Art thou a knight?"_

_Idealist: "I am a stableboy."_

_Longsuffering: "Hast thou a sword and shield?"_

_Idealist: "I have none but mine clothes and the staff I carry."_

_Eccentric: "That's too bad! For none but those fitted for war are joined into the Prince's company. Wilt thou hearken to me if I give thee counsel?"_

_Idealist: "I will, for I stand in need of advice."_

_Eccentric: "I see in our meeting the works of Destiny. I have with me creations of mine, mighty tools of war I desire to submit to the Prince: A Fiery Sword, Varis' Lance, Achilles' Shield, and Hermes' Shoes. Wear these and you shall put armies to flight. His Majesty will witness your feats and endow you with honors while my genius shall be known throughout the land. What say you?""_

_From the English play, "The White Knight of Camelot."_

_Act I. Lines 77-94._

_Premiered in New London, September 2097."_

****

Little Lloyd Asplund rode upon high atop the shoulders of the giant robot, arms wrapped around the helmet's horn as his short legs dangled over the side. The gold and white robot gleamed in the sunlight as it marched through the empty metropolis, each step causing the glass paneled skyscrapers to vibrate. Then emerged before the duo a host of red and black robots armed with sharp claws and clearly meaning business. The boy nudged his fat-framed glasses with his fingertips and sneered at the challengers. "Bash them, Robot!"

A leaping attacker was stopped cold in midair by a rocket-propelled fist from the white robot and exploded with a comedic kaboom. As the projectile flew back and reattached to its host's arm, the white robot leapt out of the way of a second assailant that sliced an office building clean in half. With quickness that belied its size, Lloyd's robot spun and kicked its opponent square in the gut, sending it tumbling through a row of buildings. And so it went, Lloyd's robot knocking down and out opponents until only one was left. "Robot, use the Mega Laser Beam!"

A blast of visible energy from the white robot's chest connected with its target. As the resultant fireball rose into the sky, Lloyd clapped his hands and hopped with laughter before turning to hug his companion. "Awesome. You're the bestest, strongest, most amazing robot ever!"

And the robot, turning its head, answered in a deep digitally rendered voice which children raised on imported cartoons naturally expected robots to sound like. "No, you are the amazing one, Lloyd. After all, you created me."

"Yes, I am amazing. I'm the best robot maker in the world!"

At that moment, the color of the sky turned dark and there rose in the eastern horizon a menacing shadow that fell over the city. A terrible voice boomed as though from Heaven itself, sending a frightful chill down the boy's spine. "Lloyd Carmine Asplund! This, is, not, playtime!"

"Eeek! The witch! Run, robot, run!"

And the duo ran, as fast as the robot could, but there was no escape from the omnipresent shadow that shaped into the form of a giant hand, reaching and slithering around Lloyd's robot and tripping it. The boy fell bottom first onto the pavement and watched tearfully as his precious creation—his life and joy—was snatched away. "No! Robot! Don't take him from me!"

The voice, which sounded so deep and terrible a minute ago, now became recognizably feminine and irritated (rather than angry). "If you would keep on schedule for once, both our lives would be so much easier."

"Don't… wait, what?"

"Wake up, Lloyd!"

------------

_10:11 AM_

_Lloyd Asplund's Apartment, Tokyo Concession, Area Eleven_

"Blargh!"

Lloyd snapped up, shaken and sweating. A furtive glance around informed him he was sitting in his bed, in his own room. He looked down; he had been sweating so much that his pajamas and even the sheets were soaked. He was literally dripping with sweat. The curious thing was that he was not much a sweater, not even on the exceedingly rare occasion that he exercised by taking the stairs at work. Plus, he'd never heard of a sleeping man drowning in his own sweat…

"You're up, finally."

He turned and saw a blurry blob in the direction of his bathroom. Fumbling and putting on his glasses, he saw his head subordinate standing with an orange bucket slung over her shoulder. He sighed deeply. "Water tactics in the morning? You couldn't just wake me like civilized people do?"

"I tried, didn't work. Today happens to be the worst day for you to be sleeping in."

Opening his drawers, Cecile Croomy began to pick out a change of clothes for her boss.

"What were you dreaming of anyways? You were grinning ear to ear one second and then you looked as if you became oppressed by some evil spirit."

The mechanic-electro-engineer-physicist staggered out of bed, trailing little wet spots on the carpet as he pattered towards the bathroom. He'd seen the dream often enough to know the metaphors all to well—The fear of having his Precious taken away, and his faithful colleague whose duty it was to remind him that there were consequences when you accepted other people's money to fund your hobby, such as demand for accountability.

"Hmm, yes, well, it began pleasant enough. I was living out my fondest childhood dream, and then you showed up."

"… I beg your pardon?"

"Did I say you? I meant you… U… Uranus. Yes, I had a vision. Greek mythology, you know, family drama, castration, flint knife. Brutal stuff, really makes the skin crawl."

Now alert and more awake than he had been seconds ago, he took the clothes from his assistant and closed the bathroom door safely in between; bodily pain was not how he liked to start his days. "You said this was a bad day to sleep in. Does that mean there are days where the extra half-hour is permissible?"

"No, there aren't. However today is especially important. That's why I came to make sure I pulled you out of bed in time." Cecile was in the middle of picking up her boss' scattered belongings when a thought occurred to her. "You do remember what today is, right?"

He did not. He rarely remembered dates and appointments and deadlines. Poor attention to minor details like that was a weakness he admitted openly. It was also the reason why he kept an assistant whose duty it was to carry multiple planners, so he could be free to concentrate on the meat of his work. "Friday?"

"Saturday."

"Ah, and what's special about Saturday?"

Cecile felt a vein surface on her temple; she endured enough stress on a regular basis as it were. "Prince Schneizel's representative arrived from Britannia. He wants to see our progress. The inspection is scheduled for 12:30. That's two hours from now."

"Topping. He'll approve our request for extra funding then."

"Or he could decide that the Lancelot is late and over budget and cancel the project."

"Cancel!?" Lloyd nearly tripped and whined loudly over the noise of the shower. "Cancel my Lancelot? But that's madness! Even a blind man could see how Lancelot changes everything."

"I know. I helped build it, remember?" Cecile knew how sensitive Lloyd was when it came to Lancelot; there was a reason why the man constantly referred to the prototype knightmare as "his," a notion she'd long since given up trying to correct. "Even if Lancelot is the most advanced knightmare in the world, that's all moot if we can't demonstrate its potential."

This was the part of his job that Lloyd liked least; accountability, which translated in his mind to "the necessity of explaining the obvious to laymen." Granted, that his was a secret project patronized by the Chancellor himself, but even this enviable status did not preclude all inquiries by nosy bureaucrats concerned about how taxpayer money was spent—as if there could be a more worthwhile public project than his Lancelot!

"I don't see what the trouble is. All core and secondary components test out. What could possibly keep anyone from recognizing the potential of my knightmare?"

"Well for starters, we have no pilot."

------------

_11:14 AM_

_Residential Project Block B77, Tokyo Concession_

For the residents of Tokyo, roadwork was as common a sight as traffic signals. Their place in the urban landscape did not change after the Invasion, except now, the construction crews were often accompanied by small detachments of soldiers: In the wake of occupation, sabotage against infrastructure by rebels prompted the Empire to step up security by assigning army units to guard reconstruction efforts. In time, pre-war prosperity returned to a growing spectrum of the local populace, undermining support for those who chose to resist. By 2017 the Empire had succeeded in suppressing urban partisan activity and driving major organized resistance into the countryside.

Consequently, security for local projects was now usually delegated to units composed of locally recruited Honorary Britannians. These soldiers were unarmed, for experience showed that partisans were reluctant to attack their brethren, even those who had entered the service of their enemy. This trend cut both ways for the occupying power, however—Past experiments in employing Honorary Britannians against rebel forces yielded unsatisfactory results, and weapons distributed to these units often found their way into the hands of partisans. Thus today, Honorary Britannian soldiers carried out their missions of deterrence and improving community relations without the aid of guns.

On this morning, at a Tokyo district formerly known as Akasaka (officially re-designated Proustworth to honor one of the Governor's favorite writers), work at a construction site was in full swing. A stocky foreman stepped over a bundle of cables as he surveyed the work of his crew, barking commands over the cacophony of jackhammers and flying sparks. Continuing his rounds on the yet unenclosed seventh floor, the foreman found his best worker busy on the job, snapping and bolting steel frames into place with the speed and accuracy of a team of experienced tradesmen.

The foreman smiled; the boy was a freak of nature, willowy as a reed and yet able to carry an I-beam section on his own without a scissor lift. He was also nimble, climbing up and around the exposed skeleton of the unfinished high-rise with the ease of a trapeze artist navigating a playground jungle gym. The irony of it all was that he wasn't even a member of his crew. "Break time, Kururugi, take thirty."

Suzaku lowered the wrench in his hand and looked up. "I'm still good, chief."

"You're making the rest of my boys look bad. C'mon, it's near lunch time."

The pair took the stairs down. The foreman cursed at the rising midday heat and wiped his forehead with a towel slung around his neck. "I don't get why you're doing this. Army is only here to keep the peace, make sure no one comes messing with my project. Why aren't you down stairs chilling with the rest of your buddies?"

The private, dark uniform sleeves rolled up and MK. 7 helmet exchanged for a yellow hardhat, smiled as he passed an ascending wielder. "There hasn't been a terrorist attack in months. I feel I should be doing something, not just sitting around getting paid."

"Seeing how much the Brits took from us, I woulda' thought a little smooching off was in order, payback and all."

"Well, back at the barracks I eat like three people. That should count for something." The young soldier chuckled before continuing. "Besides, Britannia isn't all bad; when this project is done it will house hundreds of low-income families. It's why I want to be a part of this."

"Hmph. The way I see it, they're just replacing a few of the homes they bombed to hell seven years ago. I do the job 'cause it moves folks out from the ghettos, but I don't pray for Emperor Charles before bed, if you know what I mean."

"I…"

The youth's attention was distracted by one of his squad mates standing on the back of an army utility truck. "Hey Kururugi! It's your turn to go buy lunch. "

"Coming!" Suzaku turned apologetically to the foreman. "Excuse me."

"Take it easy." The foreman watched as the private leapt through an opening in the wall, landing thirty feet below before sprinting to where his fellow soldiers were waiting with their requests.

"Strange kid, that one."

-------------------

_11:21 AM_

_City Center, Tokyo Concession_

"I told you so." Cecile sat besides her boss, arms folded across her chest as their car sat stuck amidst thick midday traffic. "I told you stopping at that drive-through was a bad idea."

Lloyd leaned back in the driver's seat and sucked his strawberry milkshake loudly through two straws. "How am I supposed to make a sales pitch on an empty stomach? We'll be there on time, relax." He held out the paper bag to the woman in uniform. "Curly fries?"

"No thanks." Cecile wrinkled her nose at the deep-fried offering; how Lloyd managed to stay so reedy in spite of his free eating habits escaped her. It was unfair, really. "What do you plan on telling the Prince when we get there?"

"Well, I thought I'd be straight up about it."

"Try me."

Lloyd cleared his throat and began to recite as though from script. "As per the government's wish list of specs and features, we've completed the world's most advanced KMF. Unfortunately, the capacity of the command and control unit…"

"The pilot."

"Right. Unfortunately, pilot capacity has become the bottleneck as KMF capability grows. The Sutherland was built to achieve more perfect human-mimicry—the closer the KMF behaved to a human, the easier it was for a pilot to get the most out of it, like wearing your own skin. Comparatively speaking, Lancelot is superman, in both energy output and maneuverability. Its performance is beyond normative human experience, and since a normal human—normal being the operative term here—can't conceptualize himself as superman, he cannot pilot the Lancelot to its potential."

"Or at all, really."

"Yes, but lets not raise that issue voluntarily shall we? I think truth in small parcels would be better for our sponsor's health, as well as ours."

Cecile sighed deeply. "We _can_ improve the user interface, make it simpler and more efficient to reduce demand on the pilot, but for that we need data, trials, time…"

"In other words, to dumb down Lancelot's controls so it can accommodate mere mortals." Lloyd rested his chin atop the steering wheel and he look towards the red-filled traffic display over the intersection. "Ergonomics, human-machine interface, anthropology, biology, stuff concerning fleshy squishy stuff… never was my forte."

"Our present pool of candidates won't be any help. We'll have to start over with a new set of criteria and sampling methods." Cecile powered up the notebook she carried in her lap and opened a roster of military personnel stationed in Area 11. "I just hope we can persuade the Chancellor to keep this project alive until we find a pilot."

"Maybe we ought to take out an ad: 'KMF test pilot wanted for Top Secret Project; superb reflexes and coordination required. Gymnast/circus experience preferred. Exceptional compensation; meals and lodging included.' If we're lucky, an apolitical ninja will respond and all our problems will be solved."

"… I am in no mood for jokes at the moment, _Sir._"

"Um, right." Lloyd's eyes were back on the road in a flash. "How now, I believe we're moving again. I'll take an alternate route and uh, get us there quicker."

------------------

_11:30 AM_

_Sector 334, Greater Tokyo Metropolitan Area_

One of the great things about electric cars is how silent they are compared to gas-driven vehicles of old. In the thirty-plus years since the imperial decree phasing out private usage of fossil fuels, electric vehicles became even quieter, greatly reducing noise pollution. The change was particularly noticeable in densely populated cities like Tokyo, where environmental noise had a tangible effect on the wellness of inhabitants. Now days, a typical electric car sitting in idle sounded little different from one zipping along at fifty-five miles per hour—ten less than what showed on Lloyd's speedometer as he rushed by rows of derelict buildings. This part of Tokyo lay outside the boundaries of the Concession, and its bleak neighborhoods stood worlds apart from the lively streets they were driving through mere minutes ago.

Cecile tightened her grip around the passenger side handle as her boss sped around a bend. "You won't save us any time if you get pulled over."

"'Clause 19 of the Magna Carta: Members of Peerage shall in all cases, except Treason and Felony, be privileged from arrest.'"

He smiled as the car bounced after hitting a pothole, eliciting a yelp from the woman next to him. "And don't worry about pedestrians. No one lives in these parts."

-------------

_11:33 AM_

One of the bad things about electric cars is how silent they are: A number of studies conducted after the Green Earth Decree suggested a correlation between increased traffic accident rates with the popularization of silent electric vehicles. However, the authorities decided that this risk was more than offset by the large environmental and economic benefits brought by electric cars. Thus, drivers were made to drive slower and pedestrians learned to be more careful.

Suzaku was not being careful. He dashed through the back alleys and ran across empty streets with his arm full of bento boxes and saran-wrapped breads—the lunch vendor operating five blocks away had run out of carrying bags. The woman who owned the food stand had catered to a local high school before the war, and her victuals were popular with salary men and women (and soldiers) on a budget.

On this particular day business was good and the wait in line long, so Suzaku decided to make up time by taking the short cut through an uninhabited sector of Tokyo—uninhabited due to the extent of the devastation and Britannian policy that prioritized developing the Concession before all others. He did not stop and check for traffic because in the ghettos there was no traffic, as drivers avoided the ghettos out of fear for crime and poor road conditions. Besides, he was in a hurry…

---------

_11:33 AM_

… And so was Lloyd, who saw the human blur cut across his path too late to hit the breaks in time.

---------

_11:33 AM_

Suzaku sensed the rush of air before he saw the speeding vehicle. Reacting reflexively, he leapt mid-stride into the air and curled into a position that would minimize the direct force of collision.

He wasn't quite fast enough; he glanced off the hood of the car and hit the windshield hard, and his world went spinning.

---------

_11:34 AM_

"Oh God." Lloyd's forehead was resting against the wheel. "Is he dead?"

Cecile jumped out of the car and ran to the prone form on the pavement thirty feet away. "Are you alright?"

"I, I think so." With a helping hand, Suzaku sat up slightly dazed and felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. "Sprain maybe, nothing serious."

Cecile's shoulders sagged with relief. "We need to have you examined. There are doctors where we are heading."

It was then that Suzaku noticed the uniform the woman was wearing and the bars denoting her rank. He struggled to his feet, nearly losing balance as he snapped to attention. "That won't be necessary, ma'am. I apologize for getting in your way."

"You've nothing to apologize for. _Someone_ wasn't driving safe." She shot the man responsible an icy stare and Lloyd ducked behind the driver's side door. "Come on, the base isn't far and it's closer than the nearest hospital."

Suzaku was touched by the woman's sincerity but habit—formed by discipline and years of cultural conditioning—was hard to break. "I appreciate the offer ma'am but I should be getting back to my unit. They'll be missing me."

"Give me your commanding officer's number. I'll call him."

"I'd rather not ma'am. The Captain doesn't take kindly to us getting in trouble."

"You're not in trouble... Private Kururugi." Cecile made out the Romanized spelling stitched on a pad across the youth's left breast. "He'll understand if I explain things to him."

"Look, the boy says he's fine and he looks fine. We're all in a hurry. Why don't we honor his choice and go our separate… uh oh." Lloyd covered his big mouth, knowing full well as the female officer turned on him that he was about to get pounded.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I take that back. No, not the face! Look, what will the Prince say if I show up with black eyes and missing teeth?"

She paused to consider for a second.

"You're right."

A blow planted in his gut left the scientist moaning and rolling on the ground as he clutched his rattled internal organs; Suzaku paled at the power and placement of the punch. Having dispensed justice, Cecile turned towards the private, the aura of a kind, worried sister replaced by a something cold, authoritative, and deadly. "Private Kururugi, you are coming with us and you _will_ receive treatment for your injuries before they get worse. Are we clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

-----------

_12:41 PM_

_Sector 399, Greater Tokyo Metropolitan Area_

_Site Y: Project Camelot Research Laboratory_

Site Y was located in the heart of a vast industrial district that had been spared from the destruction of the invasion seven years ago. The benefits of its location were manifold—access to close by industrial facilities, abundant electric capacity, and above all anonymity. Ostensibly accessible to the public, the site was protected not so much by overwhelming military presence but by its address number: abrupt dead ends, mislabeled street signs, and road crews who set up random road blocks meant that only those supposed to reach Camelot made it through the miles of haphazardly crisscrossed roadways.

Lelouch, accompanied by Villetta and Marika—Kewell's younger sister whom he had reassigned from the Knight of Ten before leaving Britannia—had just declined an offer of tea from a lab assistant when the man he was scheduled to meet walked into the reception area fashionably late.

"Your Majesty!" Lloyd extended his hand towards his distinguished guest. "It is an honor to finally meet you in person." The scientist turned to the woman beside him. "My colleague, Major Cecile Croomy. She is my military liaison and is active in research here as well."

"A pleasure." Lelouch—dressed in crisp business attire—surprised the female officer by taking and raising the back of her hand to his lips. "I read your report on solid-state energy propulsion. I found your work very promising."

Cecile flushed pleasantly; Marika quirked a brow and looked at Villetta, who merely shrugged. "You flatter me, your majesty. I hope you're enjoying Area Eleven?"

"I'm afraid I haven't had much time for sight seeing, but the sooner we finish the sooner I can start."

"In that case let's get underway. Shall we?"

Lloyd led the tour, briefly pointing out the work taking place as the group passed by different labs and workshops. Considerable distances separated the different units, each of which more or less focused on one component of the project so that only a handful of personnel out of the scores involved possessed a complete picture of the final product. Lelouch took it all in, noting the laidback workplace atmosphere. He even saw several team members dressed in blue jeans and t-shirts.

Lloyd caught on to the object of his guest's curiosity. "Everyone commutes to work in assigned outfits; technician wear, plant manager's suits, that sort. When they get here they change into whatever they like."

A few minutes later, the party stood before a pair of sealed blast doors with a sign overhead that read in large, bold print two words: Restricted Access. The scientist became visibly elated, bouncing his fingertips together in a series of quick staccatos.

"I love this part."

Lloyd pressed his thumb against a scanner. A few seconds later the access granted signal sounded and the three-foot thick doors began to roll back. The prince stood with his arms folded behind his back as he waited for the process to complete. "Lord Asplund…"

"Lloyd, please. Lord Asplund is what everyone calls my father."

Lelouch cleared his throat. "Very well, Lloyd, do you mind if I ask a straight question?"

"Not at all."

"Will Lancelot really change the face of war, or will it just be another promise that turned out to be a waste of time and resources?"

Those present were stunned by the prince's abrasive comment—Cecile was practically horrified. Lelouch waited; in addition to evaluating Lancelot itself, he was interested in taking the measure of the man who headed the most significant military research project initiated by the Empire since the knightmare frame. He learned from experience that pressure combined with insult made for a useful acid test.

"Well?"

The retreating blast doors came to a resounding halt that echoed through the cavernous hallway and faded into stillness. Lloyd slowly turned towards his guest, who was surprised to find not irritation, but genuine amusement on his demeanor. "Your majesty, Lancelot will surpass your wild dreams… I promise."

-------------------

Lelouch circled around the sleek gold and white knightmare frame, pausing at intervals to inspect certain details up close. When he read the initial report on the project (which contained no pictures for security reasons) he expected the Miracle Machine to be of a radical new design, like the Panzer Hummel that was causing Britannia so much grief. In fact, the Z-01 was largely similar in shape and scale to the venerable Sutherland which it was meant to replace. While Lancelot did appear more toned and streamlined compared to the boxy Sutherland, Lelouch was not immediately impressed that the robot—the product of more than three years of research—could become the war winner they desperately needed.

When he finished his round, the Prince stood before the robot without a word until Lloyd sidled up besides him. "What do you think, your Majesty?"

"It looks impressive."

"Thank you."

"But a better looking knightmare is not what we invested billions for."

"Of course not—you ordered all the bells and whistles as well." Lloyd strolled up to his creation and patted its thigh fondly as though he was a car dealer pitching a prize roadster. "Lancelot is the complete package of speed, maneuverability, firepower and survivability. The departure from the 5th generation platforms is so great, it's like leaping straight from a crank crossbow to a 800 rpm machinegun."

Cecile winced—she had warned him repeatedly about getting carried away. Marika, herself an elite pilot who had rode the most advanced models the Empire had to offer up until then, displayed a healthy dose of skepticism at the boisterous scientist's claims.

The prince however was not affected. "That's what I like to hear." Lelouch nodded towards Villetta, "Fetch the Panzer, Colonel. We're having a demonstration."

Lloyd's smile faltered a bit. "I beg your pardon?"

"I brought a captured enemy unit to Area Eleven for this very purpose. Don't worry, it will be a simple test. According to your specifications, Lancelot's energy shields can repulse armor piercing shells from a 105mm tank gun; shrugging off 76mm rounds from the European Panzer should be a walk in the park."

Lloyd began to rub his palms against the hem of his lab coat. "Well yes, in theory that is, but we've never…"

"Colonel Villetta will pilot the Panzer and handle the firing. Tell your man to take Lancelot and meet us at the target range."

"My man?"

Lelouch glanced over his shoulder at the scientist with an odd look. "Your test pilot. Speaking of which, I'm surprised I haven't been introduced to him yet."

On the outside, Cecile was the very image of professional composure. Inside, every alarm was going off as she nudged and elbowed her boss in the back outside the prince's view. Scenes from her career played through her mind like an old film reel even as she prayed that for once, Lloyd would do the prudent thing and come clean before matters became any worse…

"Of course, I'll go fetch him straightaway."

Cecile cracked her knuckles.

----------------

"Congratulations~!"

Suzaku had had a bizarre day, some would even say unfortunate day. After being hit by a car during an errand he was taken under duress, if not completely against his will, to a military installation absent from any map he ever seen. There he was treated for his injury and made to sign a confidentiality agreement followed by several stacks of what appeared to be health surveys and insurance waivers. Stranger still, the man who ran over him looked every bit more in pain than he was, with a hand nursing his ribs and a fresh cut on his lip. And he was offering him congratulations; to say the young soldier was puzzled would have been a gross understatement.

"Um, for what, sir?"

"On your promotion!"

"My promotion?"

"Private Suzaku Kururugi," Lloyd summoned his best authoritative tone—difficult to do when your subordinate officer just used you for a punching bag, "for your exemplary service in His Highness' Territorial Army, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Corporal."

"Sir, I…"

"You have also been transferred to the Special Dispatch Division, an auxiliary military agency under direct supervision of the Chancellery. As head of the Special Dispatch Division, I am your new boss. Your first assignment…" Lloyd lifted a five-inch thick binder from the examination room's table and planted it in the young soldier's lap, "is to familiarize yourself with the cockpit layout of KMF Z-01 Lancelot, which you will be piloting in precisely twenty-four minutes. Any questions?"

"Yes sir." Suzaku's hazel orbs lowered to the floor tiles as he paused to reflect. "This is all too sudden, sir."

Lloyd cleared his throat deliberately. "Yes, well, life waits for no man."

"I mean, I have no idea when and how I could have transferred out of my unit…"

"Elementary, Watson: You signed the papers moments ago. They're being processed as we speak."

Suzaku's eyes turned wide as saucers. "I thought those were insurance waivers."

It was the kind of reaction Lloyd Asplund lived for. "Better read the fine, fine print next time."

The way the scientist smiled reminded the young man of a certain Mad Hatter, and he was the helpless dame who'd tripped down the rabbit hole. "Sir, the only piloting I've done was in a simulator. I've never actually been inside a knightmare before."

"Not to worry. I'll walk you through each step through this headset. For today, all you have to do is get in the cockpit and hit a particular switch _exactly_ when I tell you to."

"What's going on, sir?"

"Just a harmless little demonstration."

Lloyd neglected to mention that the Suzaku would soon be staring down not one, but four barrels of a Panzer Hummel loaded with live rounds.

The ambiguity of the man's reply deepened Suzaku's anxiety considerably, but he was a trusting boy by nature who was additionally raised to respect authority. "I understand, sir. I'll do as you say."

"There's a good lad." Lloyd's exhale of relief resulted in a stabbing pain in his ribcage, a sobering reminder of Cecile's stern reprimand. A few bruised ribs were a small price to pay however if his hastily drawn together plan would save his precious from the axe of the budget committee.

Suzaku flipped through the binder until he found a diagram which detailed the layout of controls inside Lancelot's cockpit. For the next several minutes he seemed to absorb the information well, but then his brows furrowed and the crease deepened until finally he looked up for guidance.

"Um, sir? I can't seem to find the ejection handle."

Lloyd tapped his index finger against his chin. "Ejection handle? Hmm. Ah yes, I remember now. There is no ejection handle, at least not yet."

The young soldier blinked. "But, but… every knightmare's cockpit is an ejection pod!"

"Yes, about that. The thing is, I was investigating the possibility of a flight system for Lancelot. It was a stupendous idea, very exciting! But the higher ups failed to see the potential and refused to supply more funds. So I ended up routing money from a couple of less important projects, things like field trials, pilot screening and selection, cockpit ejection integration… that sort of thing."

The stuffy feeling in Suzaku's chest had by now pooled into something leaden and bottomless in the pit of his stomach. Lloyd, seeking to boost the young man's spirits, patted the soldier on the shoulder with both hands and winked.

"Trust me, everything will be fine."

----------------

_4:37 PM_

_The Royal Guest House, Clovis Land_

Planted in the center of the room, Milly spun slowly on her heels as she took in her surroundings: Ornamental mirrors and richly framed painting hung on the walls, which were covered in an elaborate red-blue pattern. Tall white French doors made up the entirety of one side of the room, opening onto a marbled balcony with stair access to the infinity pool that merged into the horizon. The doorways and corners of the ceiling were lined with sculpted white stucco. The hardwood floor was completely overlaid by a single, massive Persian rug. A large fireplace with a mantelpiece faced the King-sized canopy bed from across the room. Mahogany furniture, bowls of fresh flowers, Ming vases and antique articles adorned the somewhat cluttered living space after the Rococo style. The ceiling was a magnificent mural of Angels on clouds and other Heavenly scenes surrounding a gold coat-of-arms featuring a lion and serpent laid on top of St. George's Cross: The flag of the Holy Britannian Empire. Milly whistled.

"This is a really nice place."

The student council president turned to the boy stretched out on a chaise lounge, "It was sweet of your brother to let you stay here."

With his collar open and tie undone, Lelouch was the epitome of the working executive unwinding after work. "Clovis insisted; wouldn't take no for an answer."

Milly lowered herself to a chair beside her resting friend. "Long day?"

"Not exactly. Everything went smoothly, but the man I was scheduled to meet turned out to be different than I expected. "

"Is that a bad thing?"

Lelouch rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm not sure."

And that was the problem—while he did not doubt his brilliance, Lelouch found the man in charge of Project Camelot a quandary. It was as if Lloyd Asplund operated on his own narrow wavelength, and those who did not share his specific passions exhausted themselves just trying to relate to him. That included the female officer who was his lead assistant. Nevertheless, his personal misgivings about the project leader notwithstanding, the Black Prince was a man who valued results above all else. Thus, after he witnessed the gold and white knightmare emerge unscathed after weathering a full-on volley from the Panzer, he shook the scientist's hand and gave his full approval.

It was then that someone made three measured knocks on the main entrance to the suite. "Enter."

An impeccably dressed steward walked in and bowed to the lounging prince. "You called, my lord?"

"Club sandwich—honey mustard no mayo—fruits, cold cuts, juice and tea; I haven't had much to eat since morning."

"Very good sir. For you, madam?"

"Hmm," Milly had not planned on eating when she came to visit, but her friend's dwelling had so impressed her she was curious to learn more. "What do you have?"

The half-bald gentleman lifted his pointy nose ever so slightly. "Madam, we have everything."

Milly smiled. "In that case, I would like… a Grand Marnier soufflé with crème anglaise."

"Very good, madam. I will return shortly with your orders."

Lelouch tilted his head towards Milly after the servant left. "You are evil."

"Since when is craving dessert a sin?" She chuckled and wondered whether the self assured servant could produce the tricky dish on such short notice. "Can you really get everything here?"

"I wouldn't know; I've had no time to sit down to a proper meal. I suppose it's possible—there is a kitchen downstairs that can fill most orders. Then there are the eleven restaurants inside Clovis Land, all of whom deliver."

"A girl could get used to this sort of treatment."

"I doubt that."

Chin in hand, she turned to look at her scowling friend. "Lelouch, what could you possibly find wanting about this place?"

The Prince raised himself into a sitting position.

"Well, for starters, I feel like I'm living in the Versailles, the gaudy one currently open for public viewing. It was even worse before I removed half the breakable trinkets and the busts of these historical literary figures—can you imagine how unpleasant it is to wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself surrounded by so many pale statues of dead poets and writers?"

His frown deepened when she began laughing.

"Then there's the fact that no amount of soundproofing and clever landscaping can hide the fact that this mansion is inside an AMUSEMENT PARK. Tons of people pass through here! I hear them on the thrill rides. There are fireworks so often I never want to see one again."

"Forgive me, I had no idea the extent of your suffering. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. The commute from here to Ashford Academy is too long. I would ferry Nunally in a helicopter but that would attract too much attention. Ideally, she would dorm on campus like most of your other students, but her condition requires personalized care. Even if I did find someone…" The prince folded his hands before him as he lowered his gaze. "I'm worried she'll have difficulty adjusting living away from me."

Milly understood that Lelouch was speaking as much for himself as he was for Nunally. The two have always been together—To begin coming home to an empty mansion, even one as replete with comforts as the Clovis Land mansion, would be difficult to adjust to.

And that was when she hit upon one of her many great ideas.

----------------

_5:51 PM_

_The Student Council Clubhouse, Ashford Academy_

Lelouch took an immediately liking to the homely two-storied building, sufficiently removed from the rest of the school buildings to ensure peace and privacy. The furnishings emphasized function and comfort over aesthetics, which suited the prince fine. There were plenty of rooms inside; more than adequate for the siblings. Best of all, an elevator provided wheelchair access between floors.

"It's not exactly the Ritz…" Milly drew open the curtains and late afternoon sunlight filtered into the room as Ashford Academy—largely empty of students on the weekend—came into view. "But you'll have the place all to yourself. By night the students go home, and by day Nunally will be in school. Only the student council ever comes by, and there's nothing we do here that can't be scheduled elsewhere."

"I like the smell of the room. It feels… warm." Nunally, who had been out in the gardens getting some sun when Milly dropped in, ran her fingertips along the wall. "What do you think, brother?"

"It's perfect." The prince noted that Ashford Academy had a walled perimeter and all entrances were guarded by gatehouses or monitored; a wise precaution for a Britannian boarding school in an until recently hostile Area. "How about domestic help?"

"Sayoko can see to all your needs."

"Your maid is a local, right?"

"I can vouch for her. She has been with us for ten years and I trust her like a sister." She pinched the hem of her skirt and curtsied. "Here at l'Hôtel de Ashford, your majesties' satisfaction is guaranteed."

Nunally giggled at the elder girl's faux French accent. A digitally rendered excerpt from a Puccini opera filled the room and Lelouch retrieved his cell phone, mouthing a silent apology to Milly before answering. "This is Lelouch."

The caller was Villetta. _"Sorry to interrupt, Sir. But there are four students here who claim they're from the student council and looking for Miss Ashford."_

He turned to his friend. "Were you planning on meeting friends?"

"What? Oh rats." Milly ran to the window and looked below. "That's them. We were supposed to meet here and go for supper. I completely forgot."

"_What are your orders, Sir?"_

Lelouch joined Milly next to the window. Following her line of sight, he saw three girls and a boy close to his age engaging Marika in conversation while Villetta stood a few steps away. He considered the situation: His instructions were to remain discreet until the primary task of his trip—evaluating Project Camelot's progress—was complete. After that, he was to declare his presence in Area Eleven at an appropriate time so as to create a public sensation and surprise Britannia's neighbors in the Far East. And since the afternoon's earlier activities had satisfied Lelouch about Camelot's progress, all that remained was to unveil himself to Area Eleven.

"It's alright. Show them in. We will meet them downstairs."

"_Understood."_

"Are you sure about this, Lelouch? I could distract them and…"

"The students will have to know eventually, once Nunally begins classes. Getting to know members of the student council should help smooth the transition." The prince put away his phone and placed his hands on the handle of Nunally's wheelchair and smiled.

"We'll be counting on you, Miss. President."

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

  
_

**Author's ****Notes**: I've apologized many times before; by now any credibility I have about update schedules is shot. I will say this though: the story is not dead. I've finished my first year of law school with an awful first semester and a very good second semester, averaging out to Not Bad. Hopefully, as I continue to get the hang of how to study and test, I will have more time, energy, and inclination to write. I also apologize for not answering many of the reviews I received. I do my best, but there are so many of you, so thank you all!

The intro to this chapter was inspired by John Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress._ The characters in _Progress_ are allegories of a trait or characteristic, such as Faithful or Worldly Wiseman. After debating with myself for far too long I decided Idealist was the most appropriate label for Suzaku at this point in the story. Cecile's was a no-brainer, while Lloyd was a toss up between Mad Scientist, Eccentric, and other labels of that vein. Mad Scientist did not sound Old British much though, so Eccentric was it.


	22. The Student Council

**Chapter 22: The Student Council  
**

""_**Where in the World is Lelouch V?**_

_Black Prince AWOL; Tabloids initiate manhunt. _

_Soon, the hero of North Africa may find himself facing foes far more persistent than the legions of Europe._

_Since returning from his blitzkrieg campaign, Prince Lelouch V. Britannia has retreated from public view, playing hard-to-get with media outlets starved for information on the teenage prince who has captured the adulation of every market demographic. Now, after more than three weeks since his last public appearance, the popular press is striking back at the prince who has denied them their long-awaited media love fest. _

_On Monday, _the Enquirer _offered £100,000 pounds for "photo evidence of [Prince Lelouch's] current whereabouts." A rival publication, _the Weekly Mail, _responded with an offer of £200,000 for new footage of the prince "in a casual, unguarded setting." The latest entrant into the escalating tabloid war was _the Pendragon Post, _who offered £375,000 for pictures capturing the Prince with "non-familiar female companionship."_

_In his opening segment on Tuesday night's _the Daily Show, _Jim Stewart predicted that by week's end someone will put up a million pounds for "images of the Prince directing amphibious operations at a nudist beach." The fake news program host called upon the Prince to "take one for the team" and undress for magazines, "Their women will defect and Europe will lose all its fighting strength; war's over. All hail Britannia."_

_Mass media's hankering for Prince Lelouch reflects both his celebrity status and a strong public desire to get to know the Prince—who has led an obscure existence compared to his siblings following Queen Marianne's assassination—outside political spheres._

_No one is sure where the Prince is. Captain Claudio Darlton, XXII Division's spokesperson, said the Prince is simply "on leave," but failed to elaborate. Silence from officials has given rise to wild speculation: Bloggers have reported sightings of the Prince at a ski retreat in Vancouver, the Forbidden City, and at a number of Southern hemisphere beach resorts. Needless to say, none of the reports were verifiable, and the mystery surrounding the fate of Prince Lelouch continues to thicken…" _

_By Laura Leroux, first published in People Magazine_, _February_ _23,_ _2017."_

----------------

"What do you guys feel like for dinner?" Rivalz looked over at the three girls as the group headed towards the clubhouse, where they were supposed to rendezvous with their president. They were all dressed in casual clothes, as it was Saturday, a fact that Rivalz appreciated very much. "There's a new BBQ buffet a few blocks from school that my friends recommend."

Shirley frowned—a swimmer and diver, she was particularly conscious of her diet and figure. "All you can eat? I don't know… How about Fresh Choice? We haven't gone there in a while."

Rivalz made a face. "Salad bar? Good grief."

"They have things beside salad! Soup, pasta, baked goods, dessert…"

"But no meat! We growing youth need our protein! Besides, I thought the point of going out was so that we could have something besides cafeteria food once in a while. Fresh Choice _is_ cafeteria food."

The two exchanged glares for a few seconds before Shirley moved to reinforce her camp, smiling as she took Kallen by the shoulders. "Kallen, won't you agree that instead of pigging out on grilled meat, a wholesome, healthy meal with lots of veggies would be better for us?"

The shy girl hesitated before answering. "Yes, I suppose so…"

"How about you, Nina?"

"I don't mind either way."

"That's two votes to one. Fresh Choice wins!"

"Last I checked we were living in a Monarchy." Rivalz stuck his hands in his pockets and mumbled to himself as he considered going out with a group of guys next time.

As the group approached the clubhouse from afar, Shirley was the first to notice the two strangers standing outside the front door. "I've never seen those people before."

Nina adjusted her glasses. "Milly did say we'd be getting a transfer student or two."

"Transfer? This time of the year?"

"She said it was a special case…"

"Who cares, they're both hot!" Rivalz waved as he strolled up to the brunette who looked close to his age. "Hey, are you guys here to look at the campus?"

Marika regarded the young man warily. "Yes."

"That's cool, although you could have picked a better time. No one's here on the weekends." At closer inspection, Rivalz saw that the woman with the dark skin and silver hair was much too old to be a student, but was nonetheless a category A+ babe on the Cardemonde Scale of Feminine Charm. "Is that your sister?"

Marika narrowed her eyes. "Do we even look like siblings?"

"No, but… wait, I know. She's your governess, right?" Rivalz laughed weakly. "Anyways, none of the teachers are around, so if you need someone to show you around we'd be glad to help. We're from the Ashford student council."

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Rivalz. Rivalz Cardemonde."

"I'm Shirley Fenette." The leggy brunette stepped forward to shake the shorter girl's hand. "This is Kallen Stadtfeld and Nina Einstein. We're waiting for our president. Strange, she should be here by now."

"My name is Marika." The pilot glanced towards her senior who had just gotten off the phone and nodded in her direction. "The Lady Milly Ashford is waiting for you inside."

The student council looked at each other. A few awkward moments passed.

"_The Lady_ Milly Ashford?"

Villetta held open the front door for the visitors. "Every thing will be explained when you see them."

"Them? Who else is here?"

Not with a little anticipation, the four entered the familiar clubhouse and immediately saw their president stepping out of the elevator located across the room. Milly waved when she saw her friends. "Yoo-hoo! Sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Milly! What is going on? Who are these…" The group paused when they saw that their leader was not alone, trailed by a black-haired youth behind a wheelchair carrying a young girl.

Rivalz squinted, then blinked and rubbed his eyes. "I swear I'm see things, but that guy looks exactly like…"

"… Lelouch, the Black Prince?" Kallen's eyes lit up as though she'd waken up a second time that day.

Pleased with their surprised reaction, Milly met the wide eyes and gaping mouths with a big grin.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet my friends, their Imperial Highnesses Princess Nunally and Prince Lelouch of Britannia."

---------

"… So what you're saying is: The superintendent is back to being the Earl of Ashfordshire for the absurdly low price of a penny, which means the Ashfords are Nobility again, the prince will be living here at the clubhouse, and the princess will be attending our school starting next week?"

"I haven't told Clovis about the change in living arrangements, but basically, yes."

"Wow." Rivalz leaned back against the railing to the stairway, still dazed from the revelation and the star power he suddenly found himself in the presence of. "This is the most awesome thing I've ever… well, ever."

Lelouch had become so used to puffed speech and formalities that he found the reactions of these "normal" teenagers—people his own age, he had to remind himself—refreshing. "There will be a press conference held in the next few days; until then, I hope you can keep our being here in Area Eleven a secret."

"Brother says we'll be staying for a while; I hope I can become good friends with all of you."

"Of course!" It was Shirley's nature to be friendly, and she found the young princess far more personable than expected. "Your Highness… is it okay if I call you Nunally?"

Nunally smiled, "I would like that very much."

---------------

"Buh-dum, buh-duh-dum-dum, Big, big, big, Big O~ Buh-dum…"

A week had passed since the Black Prince had come and gone. Lloyd Asplund was seated at the center of his universe: his lab workstation. A fanned array of oversized monitors made multitasking easy. A state of the art business chair with built in AC, heating, and two cup holders ensured that the scientist's back and bottom was comfortable; it was also made from 99% renewable materials, because like most members of the scientific community, Lloyd was environmentally conscious. Two"compact" supercomputers—a Cray ST7 and a Zuse W18—combined to give him a respectable 412 petaflops of processing power which, when he wasn't running simulations of the Yggadrisil Drive and the VARIS, he used to play minesweeper.

Fortunately, today he happened to be on the job when Cecile peered over his shoulder. "How's the programming coming along?"

"Swimmingly." The scientist backed up his statement with a flurry of fingers across the keyboard. "Pilot-Find version 3.0 is up and running. With input from a few extra tests, the new algorithms will evaluate a pilot's compatibility with the Lancelot and reduce the results to a single, simply presentable percentage."

"How were the results?"

"I plugged in a few of our workers and some of the security detail; the interns came out in the low teens, while the KMF pilots did better, anywhere from 20 to 40%. It's unclear at this point how much experience and practice effect the figure, but the number does serve as a useful indicator; 40% appears to be the threshold for getting the Lancelot to move at all."

"And what were Suzaku's numbers?" Lloyd pulled up the responsive file from the Honorary Britannian's dossier and Cecile's eyes widened. "94%... That's amazing!"

"I know, what are the odds?" The scientist pushed up his glasses with a self-satisfied smile. "And all this thanks to me brushing into him the other day."

Cecile decided to let that comment slide, resting her hands against the desk for close inspection of the tables and charts on screen. "We'll have to bring that threshold down. Mass production can't go forward if even veteran pilots are unable to master the controls."

"Already on it." A few keystrokes summoned a file with the bold header "VINCENT" onto the screen. "I've formed a separate workgroup to address that very issue. Twelve… no, nine months from now, we should have a pre-production prototype that will handle as easily as a Sutherland."

The female officer smiled. "I'm impressed; I haven't seen you this on top of things in a long time." Lloyd shrugged off the compliment, but his expression said otherwise. "And for that, I think you deserve a treat."

Lloyd stared at the item Cecile placed in front of him on top of a napkin; the round object was the size of a softball, colored in a swirl of orange, green, and brown, and had a texture resembling over baked clay. A familiar chill traveled down his spine and he experienced a sensation not unlike that undergone by animals in the wild when their instincts inform them of the presence of predators and the threat of imminent demise. "Um, what is it?"

"A muffin! It has carrot, seaweed, ginger, and sprouted wheat. I also added a touch of marmite for taste."

"I see, that sounds… healthy." In fact, the scientist was convinced that the alleged baked good was anything but good for his health. "You know, I'm not hungry at the moment, and I've got to go see Bill in just a few minutes so…"

"Then take one for him too. I made lots."

Minutes later Lloyd found himself walking down the hall with the spirited gait of a man condemned to hang. He was come across by Suzaku, who just stepped out of the bathroom. "Good morning, sir."

"Oh, it's you." Weighed down by the muffins like shackles, the scientist looked the young man in a jogging suit from head to toe. "What have you been up to?"

"I just finished my gym session. Everyone says now that I'm the pilot for the Lancelot now I need to keep in shape." Suzaku wiped at his forehead with his towel. "I'm just heading to the cafeteria. All that work out has got me famished."

Gears churned and circuits connected in Lloyd's brain and soon a light bulb went on. "That's perfect! Here, you can have these."

"Really?" The young soldier looked down at the two starchy, still slightly warm pastries thrust into his arms. "Wow, they're huge! Where'd you get these from?"

"Cecile baked them."

"I couldn't. You should at least keep one."

"No no no! It's perfectly fine! I'm uh… diabetic. So you go right ahead and eat up."

Suzaku's vision followed his boss as the scientist skipped down the hallway whistling a tune. A warm, welcome feeling spreading in his chest, the young soldier raised the exotically fragrant muffin to his lips.

"Gee, what a great guy. I sure am lucky to have such nice superiors."

----------------

Diethard Reid waited for his contact at a downtown bus-monorail terminal used by many workers from the surrounding commercial district. The location was chosen because it was a central transportation hub, and the chance of commuters paying attention to their swarming surroundings—especially as they flocked to and from work—was low.

At a quarter till two, a lightly-built man in a fashionable gray coat and cabby's cap sat down next to the reporter with a copy of the _Daily Journal _folded in his lap. The understated outfit was too simple to be called a disguise, but blended well with its surrounding of drab suits and business dresses. Diethard almost rose from his seat when he recognized the figure behind the disguise.

"Colonel…! Or should it be Baroness Villetta Nu?"

"Whatever you prefer, Mr. Reid." Villetta readjusted her cap, and Diethard briefly glimpsed the bunched silver locks tucked underneath.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise; I was called about a tip on Prince Lelouch's whereabouts. I didn't expect you of all people to be the source of the leak."

"You misunderstand. I'm here by His Highness' instructions." The female officer pushed up her sunglasses as she swapped her copy of the _Daily Journal_ with the man besides her.

"Where is he?"

"Here, in Area Eleven. It's all in there."

The journalist opened the paper and a small memory drive fell into his lap. Going along with the cloak and dagger charade, he plugged the device into his planner and pulled up the contents.

"_Black Prince in Area Eleven: Governor to Host Welcome Ball; Ministry Awards Ashford Group Contract for R&Dof New KMF_…" Reading further, Diethard found other material that together constituted a press kit for several stories and headlines, as well a recommended schedule for release. "I see that the Prince has been keeping busy."

"Not a moment's rest since he stepped off the plane; I think people will be surprised when they learn the hours he keeps."

Diethard closed and pocketed his planner as he began to plan out the evening's breaking news. "So, what does Prince Lelouch ask in return for these scoops? Surely such valuable information comes with a price tag."

"A small price tag; His Highness desires your counsel on the matter of his public image."

"I'm sure many publicists would vie to place themselves at his disposal…"

"And we'll be sure to look them up, but His Highness specifically requested you; as a veteran producer and an award-winning journalist, he feels you are uniquely qualified to give advice on this topic." Villetta flipped open the papers to the society section, smiling as she skimmed the latest celebrity and political gossip. "Oh, by the way, His Highness sends his congratulations on your receiving this year's Pulitzer Prize."

"But the results won't be announced until..."

"Prince Lelouch believes that, given the quality of your work over the past seven months, it is a forgone conclusion."

Diethard folded his arms across his chest: His experiences as a member of the media community ingrained in him a deep disdain for the ruling class over their frequent meddling in his line of work. This was one instance however where he was forced to agree. He'd done a heck of a job reporting that war; raw, authentic, with no bureaucratic bull and no dressing up whatsoever. No one deserved the honors more. "A reporter is only as good as the material he has to work with; I had good material."

He appeared nonchalant, but the upward twitch in the corner of the reporter's lips did not escape Villetta's notice. "May I take that as a yes? If so, I will let the Prince know and we'll be in touch to set up an appointment."

As she rose to leave, Diethard leaned back on the bench and looked skyward, following a flight of sparrows flying overhead. "Britannian Royalty—and for that matter the nobility in general—are a curious bunch, wouldn't you agree?"

"How might that be?"

"They draw interest because the way our government functions, the gossip can be equally significant as the real news: Instead of political parties we have family alliances, and in place of elections we have a loosely defined succession process that begins the moment each heir is born. Once upon a time princes and princesses were fairytale figures that the masses knew little about; now, modern information technology has brought them down to our level. Like regular celebrities, they are scrutinized, hyped over, and forgotten. They negotiate and trade influence through favors, money, affairs, marriage. Now and then they murder and start wars. It's the grandest game; some say it is the best spectator sport we have."

"… Indeed." Villetta showed no reaction; although she was a beneficiary of the system, the thought that what happened to her master could be considered a game made her loathe those who viewed such tragedy as entertainment.

The journalist continued, his tone wonder-like as he thought aloud. "It's no coincidence that despite the tradition of selection based on merit, the majority of sovereigns we've had have been firstborns. Latecomers, among other factors, simply don't have much time to establish themselves. And that's what makes your Prince Lelouch such a compelling story."

"I doubt His Highness would agree…"

"But he is! He's the best story this generation has had since Charles seized power!" Diethard snapped forward with his hands fisted in his lap. "Think about it, the Eleventh Prince; someone that far in line from the throne has no business amounting to anything, especially after the kind of setback he had. But he survived, and rose from the dead, not once but twice. Now everyone wants to see how his story plays out: Where does the Black Prince go from here? Will he become a prima donna? A conquering warlord? The smiling steward of the Empire? Or does he carve his own path?"

Villetta had little doubt as to which royal siblings the journalist was comparing her master to. She was also beginning to realize—although she had her suspicions in the past—that the man's interest in Lelouch ran deeper than the mere spirit of inquiry. "And what do you say, Mr. Reid? Where do you think His Highness will go from here?"

"I have no idea." The glint in the reporter's was almost feral with anticipation. "But I'm dying to find out."

--------------------

"Oh dear."

It was not till much later that afternoon—after the euphoria from his narrow escape from death had worn off—when Lloyd realized that if his sole test pilot died from Cecile's muffins, Lancelot's fate would be in jeopardy. "Totally screwed," as one of the engineers from California was fond of putting it.

The first thing he did was call sick bay and tell them to prepare for a stomach pump. Then he raced to Suzaku's dormitory, located within the confines of the research facility until a more suitable location could be found, fully expectant to find the poor lad curled and lurching in spasms on the floor… if he was still able to move at all.

He swung open the door with a bang. "Suzaku!"

Cecile and the young soldier looked up from the table, a pot of tea and a plate of lemon cookies between them; clearly, he had interrupted what had been pleasant conversation. "Lloyd, what's the matter?"

"I uh… er, how are you feeling, Suzaku?"

The boy blinked at his boss. "I feel fine, Sir, nothing out of the ordinary."

"No dizziness? No seeing white spots? Stomach aches?"

"No…"

"Diarrhea? Hallucinations? Sudden thoughts of suicide?" Suzaku shook his head, completely mystified. "Good, very good… what matters is that you're safe and feeling sound. Whew~"

Confused and yet strangely touched, Suzaku stood up when Lloyd slumped against the doorway and slid into a sitting position. "Sir? Are you alright, Sir?"

"I'm glad you're with us, Suzaku." Lloyd removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose—he imagined that these were the kinds of situations that made men turn to drink. "You're irreplaceable; I wouldn't know what to do if I were to lose you."

The boy felt a lump rise to his throat, his growing affection for his new boss expanding by leaps and bounds. "Thanks, Sir. It means a lot to me, coming from you."

Cecil—pleased that the men were bonding—failed to put two and two together, thus sparing the scientist a world of hurt for the second time that day.

-----------------------

Back at the guest mansion inside Clovis Land, dinner was just getting underway for the siblings; tomorrow they would move into the club house at Ashford Academy, so the evening's meal was the last they'd have in their first temporary home in Area Eleven. Glad to escape from the tourists and nightly fireworks, Lelouch decided that a celebration was in order. "Princess, your seat awaits you."

"Thank you." Nunally smiled when she felt her brother's arms hook beneath her knees and behind her back, lifting her from her wheelchair and gently lowering her onto a overstuffed seat. Smoothing out the skirt of her dress, her fingers touched the smooth table cloth flowing around her lap. She also picked up the smell of fresh-cut flowers and lightly scented oils in the air. "A candlelight dinner! What's the occasion, brother?"

"Nothing in particular; it just feels like a long time since we've sat down and enjoyed a meal together." Lelouch stood to serve the both of them, taking care that everything on Nunally's plate was in bite-sized pieces. "Are you excited about starting school?"

"Very much. In the palace we've always had tutors, and I think it will be a lot of fun meeting new people, especially if they are all so interesting like Milly's friends."

"They seemed like a good group, did they not?" Lelouch was not surprised by how well the introductions with the Student Council had gone. For one, they _were_ Milly's friends, and second, he knew that it was Nunally's gift to befriend everyone she came into contact with. Even those who were cool and standoffish tended to warm to his sister's presence; he of all people knew this well, and was grateful that tragedy and disability had not left her scarred inside. "The middle school and high school do not share buildings, but Milly said she would issue an executive order making you a special member of the Student Council. That way you'll still see each other almost every day."

The princess giggled. "She sounds more like a queen than a president."

"Yes, well, I'm not surprised."

Lelouch was curious however when he first learned that rather than having a prefect-based system—the norm in secondary schools within the Empire—Ashford Academy's student government copied the European style, with an elected executive council and class representatives. Reuben told him that it had been Milly's idea; that it would encourage more students to participate and that "things will be more fun this way."

While he had not doubt that Milly was having fun, Lelouch suspected that his old friend's motives were not entirely egalitarian. After all, a student body president combined the roles of school captain, head boy and girl. There was therefore no one to share power with, and no one to oppose Milly Ashford in any policies she chose to implement.

Thus, while the prince did not believe his friend to be the sneaky political type (a class of creature he was all too familiar from his time living in the Palace), he found it entirely possible—even probable—that she changed the system so that no obstacle stood between her and her vision of "fun." This was a slightly worrisome thought, but Lelouch decided that whatever powers a student council president wielded was still ultimately child's play. Surely he, a proven Court and military strategist, could handle that.

"So which girls will you be dancing with?"

Satisfied with his assessment, Lelouch looked up from his food. "Excuse me?"

"The Dinner Party that Clovis is hosting. There is a ball afterwards, right?" Nunally tilted her head inquiringly. "Are you going to ask anyone to dance?"

"Not likely." Lelouch dipped his spoon into his platter, stirring the warm bisque. "After all, we've only been in Area Eleven a short time. Clovis will help me make the rounds later I'm sure, but right now I hardly know anyone."

"You know Milly." She felt for and found her fork on the table. "And the girls on the Student Council are all very pretty."

"Oh? And what makes you think that?"

"A lady's intuition." Nunally smiled at her brother. "We girls can tell, sometimes even without looking."

Lelouch laughed. "Then they must be pretty indeed, to receive such praise from the fairest lady of all."

"Lelouch!" The doors to the dining room were flung wide open and Clovis La Britannia marched in. "I've been looking for you. My tailor needed your measurements yesterday! If we don't get you fitted now the tux won't be in time for the Party."

The Black Prince sighed deeply. "What's wrong with what I have now?"

"Why nothing of course, aside from the fact that they're rags." Clovis touched his forehead as though a migraine were setting in. "It's exactly as I feared; you've been in the military too long. Leave a soldier to his own devices and he'll show up at a banquet in a burlap bag, pffft."

"Good evening, big brother."

"Nunally! You're looking lovely as ever." The third prince of Britannia cooed as he bent down to peck her on the cheek. "So sorry that I haven't been able to keep you company much. I've been running around constantly making sure that this party will be perfect to the last detail."

Lelouch's expression became cross. "You don't have to; it's just a party."

"All work and no play, you. It's why you've become such a grouch." Clovis shook his head sadly as he placed a hand around the princess' shoulder. "Right, Nunally? We wouldn't want dear Lelouch to become a grouch, would we? He needs to learn to have fun, relax. Dress up nice and go out once in a while!"

Nunally nodded in emphatic agreement and Lelouch knew he'd been beaten.

----------------------------

Kallen climbed the front steps to the Stadtfeld mansion. She lived here—has lived here for more than the past three years—but she has never considered the gorgeous estate her home. Home was the old house she shared with her brother and mother, small but just the right size for three, which they were forced to evacuate one summer evening along with everyone in the neighborhood when the air raid sirens started. They had little time to pack; her mother packed food, blankets, and a few keepsakes. Her brother carried water, batteries, and warm clothes. Kallen could only take her drawing pad and her favorite stuffed animal. Her mother promised they would be back soon, but she never saw Home again.

One of the maids opened the door for Kallen. "Welcome home, Miss Stadtfeld."

She passed the bowing servant without acknowledging her; she didn't like responding to that name.

_They walked a long time, until the red and orange sky faded and the stars appeared. Everyone walked; no trains or buses were running. None of the adults talked, only whispers and sounds from children. Everywhere the electricity was out; the roads were unlit but the moon was full and bright. Kallen's mother held her hand tight the whole time, and when she became sleepy Naoto carried her and she slept using his shoulder as a pillow. She woke up when she heard fireworks, but remembered that the Hanabi Festival wasn't until next week—Mother bought her a pretty blue yukata with gold fish swimming on it. She asked her brother why the fireworks were early; he coaxed her to go back to sleep, so she did, worrying that they would run out of fireworks before the festival. _

_The fireworks continued for two weeks._

"Home already?"

Kallen looked down to find the lady of the house standing at the foot of the stairs; Mrs. Stadtfeld, her mother, except she was not her mother, which was about the only thing the two women agreed on.

"I called in sick."

"As always."

Kallen did not care much about her stepmother: When she was a child, her mother never spoke ill of her father, so she assumed that a witch must have stolen him away. It was not until later that she learned from Naoto that it was their father who left them soon after she was born and married another woman. She couldn't understand; mother always looked so happy with him in the pictures inside her old photo albums. When she asked why their father left them, Naoto's reply was short and angry.

_Because we're Japanese._

She did not want to deal with the woman now. "I'm tired. I'm going to my room."

"Maybe some good news will raise you spirits?" The woman was smiling, which Kallen liked even less than her condescending sneers. "Your father and I have been invited to the Governor's welcome party for Prince Lelouch, you know, the one that's all over television."

"You must be ecstatic."

"Oh I am. Not even the Lady Salisbury received an invitation. You should have seen her face when I showed her mine—she insists hers must have been lost in the mail!" She laughed the cultivated laugh of the Britannian gentry; controlled and effortlessly arrogant. "Unfortunately, this is an adult only event—no children allowed—so I'm afraid we won't be able to bring you along."

Kallen was about to snap back a reply before she remembered that that was what her stepmother wanted—to get a rise out of her. Clenching and unclenching her fingers around the stair rails, she counted to five.

"Give the Prince my regards… if you manage to get his attention at all, that is."

Pleased that she did not give her the satisfaction of seeing her outburst, Kallen turned and quickly climbed the stairs to her room. Entering and shutting the door, she pulled out her cell phone and hit a speed dial number. The answer came after several rings. _"Hello?"_

"Ougi, it's me. We need to meet, soon."

"_Why? What's up?"_

Kallen reached inside the pocket of her uniform jacket and retrieved an ornate card with gold embossed letters.

"Our big break."

------------------

_Miss Kallen Stadtfeld,_

_His Highness the Governor of Area Eleven, Prince Clovis L. Britannia_

_Requests the pleasure of your company_

_On Saturday, the XX of March_

_At _

_The Strand Hotel_

_To honor _

_His Highness the Duke of Hereford and Kendal, Prince Lelouch V. Britannia_

_  
Cocktails and Hors d'oeuvres_

_At six o'clock in the evening_

_Dinner followed by dance_

_White tie_

_1112 Salzburg Street_

_Strand Hotel  
Cornwallis Ballroom  
Tokyo Concession, Area Eleven  
_

----------------

_To be Continued._

_

* * *

  
_

**Author's Notes: **I've been told by several people that someone has plagiarized parts of this story for their own Geass fic; since then the offending parts appear to have be modified. I want to thank everyone who told this plagiarizer that what he/she was doing was wrong, and hope that we can all remain vigilante of such abuses in the future.

The length of this chapter is what I'll be aiming for in the future, to shorten update times and for my own benefit. As far as the contents of this chapter goes: Calendar issues aside, Lloyd would have been a young boy when Big-O first began airing, possibly inspiring him towards his current profession. Kallen enters the story, and the next installment should largely proceed from her point of view as she conspires with the Ougi Group against Lelouch. The Zuse supercomputer is a reference to Konrad Zuse.

Thanks to everyone still reading this story and your patience.


	23. The Honey Trap

**Chapter 23: The Honey Trap**

"…_The prince surveyed the wind-swept valley from atop his steed. Overhead, in a sky threatening snow, large carrion birds circled in great numbers, shrilly impatient for the living to leave so they could feast on the dead. Adjusting the wolf pelts wrapped around his shoulder, he watched his legionnaires wade through the broken fields with blades drawn, making sure no one was trying to act clever. With their dark gray capes whipping in the breeze, the soldiers looked like so many wraiths, going about their grisly business._

_Eight months ago, when news arrived of an uprising in the East, his father sent him and his legion on a punitive expedition to remind all of what happens to those who rise against the Empire. After a drawn out game of cat and mouse, he forced the belligerent Tribes into set battle. He stung them with ballista and catapult and taunted them with horse archers and then his legionnaires pushed forward to saw through their ranks. A charge by his cataphracts panicked his foes and sent them reeling. The rebels became trapped by their own baggage train and many were trampled during the desperate flight. He put half the men to the sword; the remainder and their dependents would be marched back to Pendragon and sold as slaves. _

_His task was complete, and yet he felt little joy: No doubt he would receive a lavish Triumph upon his return. Offerings would be made on his behalf at temples and toasts raised to his health in humble taverns and patrician orgies. But such things no longer motivated him. Like a boy who had mastered one toy, he longed for the challenge of a new game._

_A cavalry officer pulled up and hailed in salute. "My lord, we have taken the rebel leader, per your instructions."_

"_I will be along shortly." _

_The prince smiled. He was going to collect his reward._

_****_

_The past several hours passed in a blur for Karen: When the battle was lost she decided to make her last stand and take as many of her foes as she could with her. Ringed by shielded legionnaires, she challenged them forth, but instead was overcome when nets were cast over her. Fearing a fate worse than death, she tried to take her own life but lost both her axe and dagger in the ensuing scrum, where a blow to the side of her head stunned her._

_The soldiers clasped her in chains and brought her by mule cart to the provincial capital. But instead of locking her in a damp cage, they brought her to the governor's palace, where she was placed in the care of a host of female servants. The women—all extraordinarily beautiful and from all the nations under the Empire—were filled with mirth as they ushered her into their quarters. Without warning they began to undress her, and when she tried to awkwardly resist a woman assured her that she was merely going to bathe. Sticky with sweat and the smell of wet hay from the cart ride, Karen complied—if she was going to die, at least she would die feeling clean. _

_Four women attended her inside a gorgeous bath hall with frescoed floors and marble columns. When she was clean from head to toe they rubbed and massaged her body with oil and scented water; in spite of the shackles which stayed on, Karen began to relax. Toweled dry and wrapped in a comfortable robe, she was led into the kitchen, where she was allowed to use her own hands to eat. The thought of poison passed but briefly through her mind—they had plenty opportunity to kill her, and if she was to die, she might as well die fed and content—before she proceeded to stuff herself on chicken, lamb, olives, grapes, and figs, chasing it all down with a sweet nectarine wine. _

_One of the girls smiled and whispered when she bent down to refill her goblet. "Aphrodite smiles upon you this evening, my lady."_

"_What makes you say that?"_

"_It is known that his highness never lies with a woman during campaign, but he makes exception for you."_

****

"_Hmm," The prince studied the red-haired girl sitting on his bed with a look of approval, "I thought you were handsome in hides and mail. Who knew you could wear silver straps and satin so well?"_

_Karen bit her lower lip, her hands fastened tight above her head by a strong silk knot. Even if she had her hands, the outfit she was changed into was so scandalous she would have been too busy trying to cover herself to lunge at her captor. "Let me go."_

"_If I do, do you promise to be good?"_

"_Of course."_

"_I would believe you, but for the fact that every time we meet you swear to destroy me, and every time you fail. What's it been now, five times? My dear, you have a credibility crisis."_

_Karen seethed at him as he sat down a the foot of the large bed, just out of reach of her feet. After several ineffectual attempts at kicking him he snatched her by the ankle and held it mid-air. _

"_Behave or I will tie you down by all fours."_

_His fingers smoothed along her calf, caressing her feet as he set it down. Karen shivered; for a moment she wondered what it would be like for him to touch her in other places. Shamed by her repeated defeats and her body's reaction to his attentions, she lowered her head. "If you won't let me go, kill me."_

"_And undo all my efforts for the last eight months? Absurd." The prince saw the quizzical look on her face and continued, "You don't seem to realize: This whole time, while you've been wanting my head… I've wanted you."_

_Karen was shocked, his words causing her to redden to her ears before anger rose up to mask embarrassment. "I'll die before I become one of your slaves."_

"_If you're referring to the women outside, they're not my slaves. I purchased their freedom and those who stayed stay of their free will. In any event, I would never dream of taming you when it is precisely your fire and passion which I admire."_

"_My passion for you is borne out of hatred."_

"_Love and hate are but two sides of a coin, and I intend to flip ours. Consider this the start of our 'official' courtship."_

"_I can't believe… the nerve!"_

"_If it makes it easier, you don't have a choice." She held her breath when he leaned in close to her face, her eyes drifting close when she felt his lips brush her cheek and his breath in her ear. "I've mastered you on the battlefield, I will master you off it."_

_She felt he must be mad; how someone could treat war like wooing and declare his love while holding one prisoner was beyond her. She returned his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster; her rebellion defeated, she was determined not to give him the satisfaction in this last struggle. "… You can have my body, but you'll never possess my heart."_

"_We'll see about that."_

"_Bed of Thorns,"(2041), by Suzanne Raybourne, from the Velvet Lampshade Series, a publisher of erotic and historic romance. Now available in paperback."_

* * *

Kallen walked down a sidewalk inside a ghetto, one of the many shrouded beneath the shadow of the plate on which Britannia's sparkling concession was erected. Here, the sky was perpetually gray, a steel ceiling looming overhead that seemed to suffocate the very human soul. Cracked and dusty store signs hung over boarded doors. Water dripped from broken pipes and stained the walls. Poverty was endemic, and not only in the material sense, for the ghettos impoverished the spirit of all unfortunate enough to live in them.

Kallen stuffed her hands inside her jeans; the central ghettos were always colder than the outlying ones. The hood of her jacket was pulled up in an effort to be inconspicuous and conceal as much of her fair complexion as possible. But still the locals noticed; huddled around rusted barrels burning wood scrap and rubbish, they cast cold looks at the outsider as she hurried by them. It was the cruelest of ironies that as a result of her mixed birth, Kallen Kozuki was an alien amongst her own people.

Stepping across a puddle and turning into an alley, she came to the side of a building that was in relatively good shape. She tapped the corrugated garage door once, twice, and then three times in quick succession. A minute later, a small piece of the barrier slid away to reveal a viewing port and a pair of black beady eyes.

"It's me."

The port slammed shut and the sound of multiple bolts sliding open could be heard. A few seconds later the steel door was rolled up with a loud racket. A man whose wiry slouched form reminded one of a weasel stepped out from the shadows. "You're early."

Kallen stepped inside their base and was relieved to feel the warmth of a gas heater at work. "Is everyone here?"

"Just you, me, and Great Leader." Shinichiro Tamaki grunted as he pulled down the door with a bang. "Everyone else begged off after last week's operation went south. Lots of em' still got jobs; rebellion don't pay the rent, you know."

Kallen walked up to the truck with the Britannian Army insignia on the side, pushed aside the flaps and looked inside to find the back filled with similarly labeled cardboard boxes. "Looks like a good haul. Was anyone hurt?"

"Nope. No escort, no resistance. We jumped that truck, shooed the native driver out, and made off without a hitch."

"Then what went wrong?"

Tamaki kicked an opened case across the floor to where Kallen was standing. "MREs; the truck was supposed to be carrying guns and ammo, not packets of pork patty and chili."

The red-haired girl sighed. Theirs was truly a sad state of affairs; with only a few dedicated members left from her brother's old resistance cell, the rest were volunteers who pitched in when they could afford the time. With the lack of commitment came shoddy work; the intelligence for the latest operation came from someone in the group who had a cousin who knew someone who was neighbors with someone who had a girlfriend who worked on a Britannian military base. "At least we won't have to worry about food for a while."

"And you know what the real sad thing is? These don't even have Hershey bars in them, only the nasty fruit cups." Tamaki tore open a box and, not finding the sweet he was craving, tossed the whole thing back into the case. "No wonder Britannian soldiers are such jerks. I mean, look at what they're fed. I'd be pissed too if I had to eat this crap all the time. Serves them right though."

"Come on, they aren't that bad once you get used to them." A man with curly hair that was a throwback to rebellious Japanese teenagers twenty years ago emerged from interior. "And Kallen's right; you never know when having extra food can come in handy."

"Man, you are way too optimistic. What are we gonna do when we run out of bullets? Threaten them with the sporks that come inside the packs?" The disgruntled Japanese freedom fighter jutted his thumb towards the man who was supposed to be the leader of their small cell. "Wolfgang Puck here has been trying to come up with ways to make the MREs taste better. No luck so far."

Ohgi scratched the back of his head and laughed sheepishly. "I thought the Spam and egg donburi turned out okay…"

"Maybe we can share some of these with the locals?"

"That's a great idea! I can even include a printout of my recipes; more suitable for Japanese palates." The man in charge scribbled down the idea in his notebook and when he was finished he turned to the girl standing before him. "Now, Kallen, you said you had important news to share with us."

* * *

The three sat around a table under a naked light bulb suspended from the ceiling. At the center of was Kallen's invitation to Clovis' banquet welcoming the hero of Britannia to Area Eleven. The silence was broken by the whistling kettle atop the gas heater in the corner of the room, followed shortly by Tamaki brief exclamation.

"Damn."

Ohgi rose and returned with the steaming kettle and poured three mugs. "I was surprised to hear on the radio that the Black Prince was here; I had no idea he's going to be living at your school."

"Amazing right? You'd expect someone of his caliber to be more careful." Kallen curled her fingers around the mug before taking a sip. "It's just him, his younger sister, and one Japanese maid living in the clubhouse. There were two women, probably his subordinates, but they'll be living somewhere off campus."

"Women and children, it almost sounds too easy." Tamaki rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his knuckles in anticipation.

"They've increased the guard at the entrances to the Academy, but it's still light compared to an army base or the Governor's Residence. I think if we pushed hard, we could break in and…"

"Now hold on a minute." Ohgi raised his hand, halting her mid-sentence. "Kallen, you're not suggesting we attack your school, are you?"

She had her reservations, but recalling all she had gone through and all that Britannia had taken from her—the home she grew up in, her country, her family—she steeled herself. "It's his fault for being careless. The clubhouse is located away from the dormitories and the rest of campus. Collateral damage shouldn't be much of a concern."

"What I am concerned about is our image. We are freedom fighters. Attacking a school… there's just something wrong about that." The man who used to be a teacher shook his head gravely. "Moreover, it will bolster Britannia's claim that we're terrorists."

"People think we're terrorists already anyways. Who cares what they think?" Tamaki planted his fist on the table, nearly spilling everyone's mugs. "I say we strike before the Prince gets his guard up."

"Be reasonable! Think about it: Even if the campus is lightly defended, as we are now I doubt we can succeed even with the element of surprise on our side."

"But we can't just let him get away." Kallen whispered as her fists tightened beneath the table. "He's _right here, _Britannia's hero close within our grasp. I even get to see him everyday…"

"That's it!" Ohgi stood up, startling the other two members of the group. "Look, we keep focusing on violence and direct confrontation, but we're overlooking the one advantage we have here."

If they ever had an advantage over the government's forces, Tamaki was not aware of it. He worried whether the strain of fighting a loosing battle for so long had finally made his leader crack. "And what's that?"

Ohgi pointed at his good friend and former leader's younger sister. "Kallen, they don't know you're one of us. You're on the student council with his sister; you have access to him."

"I see! And when I get the chance I'll grab him, and then we can negotiate for the return of Japan!"

"Um, that's not exactly…"

"Or you could just take him out; push him off the roof or something."

Ohgi shook his head again; he'd been doing that a lot lately. "What I'm saying is he'll be most valuable to us alive, as a source of intelligence. We can pass on any info we get off him to the Japanese Liberation Front. They have the power to attack the Britannians where they'll hurt, and we could gain their recognition and support in return." Ohgi turned back to Kallen. "Therefore, the first step is for you to get close to him. Gain his trust."

Kallen cocked an eyebrow; not a proponent of subtlety, she much preferred to get information by beating it out of someone. "How am I supposed to do that?"

Tamaki knew the answer. "You could become his girlfriend!"

"What!?"

"What was that saying? 'Honey traps are the downfall of kings and heroes,' something like that. Anyways I know these princely types; playboys and womanizers, every last one. Show them some legs and breasts and they'll spill everything."

The redhead shielded her chest with her arms on reflex; the idea of undressing for the slimy royal was just too repulsive to consider. "I'm not showing him anything!"

"Now, now, let's calm down and think this over, okay?" When he had refilled everyone's mug with tea, Ohgi continued. "Kallen, no one is asking you to surprise him in his kitchen wearing nothing but a loose-fitting sweater, but you do have to gain his confidence somehow, and this banquet will be a great chance at making an impression. How does that sound?"

The other two exchanged looks before turning back towards their leader. "I guess that's alright, but…"

"A loose sweater in the kitchen? What kind of fantasy is that?"

It was Ohgi's turn to become flustered. "I… I was just giving an example!"

"Have you been going through those old dating games I loaned you ages ago?" Tamaki looked upon his friend with a particularly stinging kind of pity. "That stuff's not real, man. Snap out of it and come back to reality."

"I said that's not it!"

* * *

Villetta stood in front the sink, scrubbing her face as the faucet ran. Her new home was a high rise which the military built to house officers and their families stationed in Area Eleven. Although her rank and nobility entitled her to a separate, much grander private residence, she chose the condominium for its proximity to both Ashford Academy and the closest fortress, where a battalion with KMFs was available to respond to any threats that could arise against her Prince.

At 9 o'clock she would meet the fortress commandant to review contingency plans. In the afternoon she would return to oversee the improvements being made to Ashford Academy's security and surveillance systems. As it were, the campus' high walls and motion-sensing lights were sufficient to deter burglars and peeping toms, but her concern was with more serious intruders. For some reason, organized resistance still existed in Area Eleven seven years after victory had been declared in Japan, and this despite 40,000 troops stationed in Tokyo alone. It was costly to maintain such a large force so far away from home for what was essentially a peacekeeping operation, especially in a time of war against Europe. Villetta was sure her commander would take up the issue with the Governor at some point.

Face dripping, the baroness turned off the water and reached for the towel rack but came up empty—she had tossed hers in the wash and forgot to replace it.

"Here."

"Thank you." Villetta accepted the towel placed in her hand. When she had finished drying her face she looked and found her housemate through the reflection in the mirror. "Good morning, Marika."

The girl did not reply but fetched her toothbrush and proceeded to go through her morning routine in the adjacent sink. Villetta had been worried about the young woman since Lelouch concluded the deal with the Knight of Ten. She remembered how she had marched into his office unannounced the day after with a temper to match the fiery color of her hair:

"_With all due respect, my lord, I must protest this transfer."_

"_Marika!" _

_Lelouch signaled for Villetta to stand down before turning to address Kewell's sister. "You seem to be under some mistaken impression, Lieutenant Soresei. Lord Luciano signed off on the transfer. He felt your talent would find better employ here. Nevertheless, your objection has been noted." _

_The young woman remained incensed. "Sir, I've been with the Valkyrie Squadron for more than a year."_

"_And doing quite well, as I've been told."_

"_See? I should be with my friends."_

"_Soldiers don't choose where they serve or whom they serve with. You'd know that if you were a professional like Kewell was."_

"_How dare you…"_

"_Enough." Lelouch rose from his seat, his black countenance surprising even Villetta, who had seen him in far darker hours. "If you don't like the orders you've been given you're free to resign. Only know this: Leave and you'll never serve under the Britannian flag again. Are we clear?"_

_Marika was taken aback by the ultimatum, an expression of hurt and confusion on her face. When no reply was forthcoming Lelouch raised his voice. "Are we clear, Lieutenant Soresei?"_

"_Yes my lord." _

"_Dismissed." The girl saluted stiffly. When she reached for the door to his office Lelouch spoke after her with a much softer tone. "Lord Luciano thrives on violence and actively seeks it. Kewell would have wanted you elsewhere, somewhere safe. Try to see things his way."_

_Marika's fingers tightened around the brass door knob. A moment later she looked back over her shoulder and Villetta saw angry tears in her eyes. _

"_You're not my brother. Don't pretend to be."_

They came to Area Eleven not longer after that, and since then Marika hardly spoke unless spoken to, wordlessly going about her duties, which was chiefly to assist Villetta in her myriad of mundane but essential tasks to support of her commander's extended stay in Area Eleven. Concerned for the wellbeing of the younger woman, Villetta requested that Marika be assigned to live with her out of the hope that the girl would open up to her, but so far had little luck.

"The Prince told us to take tomorrow off to prepare for the Governor's ball. I didn't bring any evening wear from Britannia, so… would you like to go shopping tomorrow?" The baroness smiled—surely a day spent shopping for clothes would lift even the dourest mood. "We could visit a spa and have our hair done. Spend one whole day getting ourselves to look great. How about it?"

"If it will please His Highness."

Had Villetta not known the reason behind it, she would have interpreted Marika's acidic attitude towards Lelouch as typical teenage behavior. She hoped this was the case, and that given time she would come to realize that Kewell's loss was no one's fault, but merely one of risks they faced in their dangerous line of work.

Marika replaced her toothbrush on its stand. "Is it true that the new KMFs being built are copies of the Panzer Hummel?"

The elder woman realized she was referring to the contract awarded to the Ashford Group, something Prince Lelouch had a hand in arranging. "A few minor changes here and there, but basically copies. It's the quickest way to field a response to Europe's KMF."

"And it doesn't matter that that thing killed so many of ours." Marika gargled and spat the residue into the sink. "No surprise that the Prince signed off on it though; he's nothing if not practical."

Villetta picked up her brush. She wasn't upset; Marika was mourning, and Lelouch was the obvious outlet on which to project her grief. "You say that because you haven't gotten to know him. Give him a chance; I think you'll change your mind."

The younger officer set down her cup loudly, turning to look at her senior. "Why are you always so quick to defend him?"

"I am not defending him."

"Are you in love with him?"

The brush snagged painfully on a tangle and slipped from Villetta's hand. "That's absurd."

"Really? I don't know. He sent you and Kewell on a suicide mission and you don't fault him at all. You're enamored with him like everyone else, refusing to see what a selfish, glory-seeking bastard he is."

"You weren't there. Had you been there…"

"My brother loved you."

The effect which this simple statement had on Villetta surpassed even the girl's earlier accusation. Marika went on. "I went through his personal effects; his diary and letters were full of mention of you. But I see now that his devotion was misplaced—it's obvious you didn't give a damn about him."

_***Slap***_

Villetta regretted her action as soon as soon as she struck the younger woman. Surprised and full of guilt, she stared at her dear friend's sister, who held the reddening side of her face. "Marika, I'm sorry. I…"

"I'm afraid I shall be unable to accompany you tomorrow after all, ma'am. Please excuse me."

She heard Marika's bedroom door slam down the hallway. Minutes later, Villetta remained in the bathroom, shoulders sagged and head hung low. Spotting something out of the corner of her eye, she reached for and picked up an expensive bottle of hand crème she purchased not long after she had returned from North Africa. She had used it daily since, and the effects were telling. Her hands were much smoother now.

_Like a lady's should be._

"…What should I do, Kewell?"

* * *

Nina sat inside the dressing room, the dress picked out for her by the helpful store manager laid across her lap. For the third time, she stood and held up the dress. Examining her reflection in the mirror, she saw a girl that whose face might have appeared next to the word "average" in the dictionary: average height, average skin, average black hair worn in pigtails, too slight a frame to fill out a proper evening gown, and the same pair of metal-framed glasses she'd worn since middle school. In fact, she questioned whether she could even do "average" justice, especially when compared to the rest of the field at Ashford Academy. One could not claim to be average when the mean was obviously set at a higher bar—it was a mathematical certainty.

She heard her friend knock from the adjacent stall. "Nina, are you finished?"

"Almost ready." She put down the gown and began to undress. With her glasses removed, she squinted at her blurred reflection, barely making out her frowning features. Nina sighed.

"Why do I even try?"

She met Shirley in the common area outside. Even though she'd known it all along, she could not help her admiration—and accompanying sense of inferiority—for how gorgeous the swimmer looked, especially now, dressed in a wine-colored dress that flattered her enviable figure and healthy skin tone.

Unlike Nina Einstein, Shirley Fenette was far above average in every physical respect; long auburn hair that caught and glowed under sunlight, a great figure, and a face that boys from the Poetry Society wrote sonnets for. But unlike most people gifted with great looks, Shirley did not try to make herself the center of attention. She was almost saint-like in that regard, possessing a special humility that made her blind to the shortcomings of those around her.

It was this quality—shared to different extents by Milly and Rivalz—that enabled Nina to exist in the student council. Nevertheless, she would from time to time receive reminders that she could never aspire to become the equals of her peers, in outward looks or inner beauty; this was one of those times. "It looks great on you."

"Thank you! You look cute in yellow, Nina. You should wear it more often, not just for the banquet." Shirley turned back to the mirror and beamed. "Isn't it exciting? We'll probably be the youngest people there tomorrow. I wonder what famous people we'll see."

Nina smiled back. Standing in front of the wall mirror, the contrast between them was obvious: Whereas Shirley was a blossoming young woman who could easily pass for a university student, the reasonable bystander could—and did—mistake her for a middle-schooler.

After they paid for their purchases, the two left the shop and turned down the street, failing to notice the trio of men waiting outside, the leader of whom took note of the girls' appearances and shopping bags and motioned his companions to follow them.

-----

Lelouch sat in the back of a limousine, on his way home to Ashford Academy after a long, boring day being led on tours of government buildings. He noticed that no matter their function—Police Headquarters, the Revenue Service, the District Court, the Ministry of Education—every building featured an art gallery with an impressive collection of his brother's works. He saw so many of Clovis' paintings that he was surprised (and relieved) that he and Nunally were not among the portrayed.

He was on the phone with Clovis now, nodding repeatedly into the cell phone pressed to his cheek. "Mhmm, mhmm. Yes Clovis, that sounds 'fantabulous.' I'll leave the choice of music in your capable hands… No, I do not need a date, I'll bring my own…… Look, I realize that it would mean the world to the Earl if I'd escort his daughter, but I have my considerations as well, and… hold on a moment. Driver, pull over."

As the convoy of three cars--two vans carried his security detail--came to a stop, Lelouch rolled down the window. He watched two familiar figures walk down the sidewalk across the street, trailed at a distance by three men with shady hats pulled low and their hands kept unnaturally in their jackets and closing in.

He called for the leader of his security team.

------------

"Alms for the poor, ladies. Purchases and purses please. Quickly quietly and no one gets hurt."

A minute ago they had been strolling towards the monorail station. Now Shirley found herself half-pushed, half-herded into a narrow alley, a gap between two tall buildings that was fenced off on one end and blocked on the other by the three rough-looking men.

"I… I'll scream." Shirley held Nina's hand tightly as the girls backed towards litter bin and boxes by the wire fence.

The man produced a switchblade. "You can scream all you want, no one will hear you. And I'll cut your Britannian throat."

Nina's eyes went wide at the sight of the glinting knife. She stared at the shaded faces of her assailants and made out their Oriental features. An icy feeling gripped her innards as buried memories resurfaced.

_Yelling, Smoke, Windows Shattering_

_Door Broken, Screams, Blood_

_Four Men, Foreign Men, Colonials_

_Torn Sheets, Clothes Ripped and Gagged_

_Knife under Chin and Hands over Limbs_

_Grime, Friction, Pain, Smell and Sweat _

_Muffled Cries, Cruel Laughter_

_Laughter, Laughter_

"Nina?"

"No…" Strength fled her body, fear and helplessness and disgust and hate welling up from inside the pit of her stomach as she dropped to her knees, hugging herself and unable to keep out the painful memories starting to loop in her mind. Her heart was beating through her chest. "No, No, No, No, No!"

"Nina!" Shirley was frightened, at a loss. Her friend was crying and shaking and appeared to be going into hysteria.

"Shut up! Shut up!" The girl unnerved even the muggers, who stood over the huddling pair and brandished his knife. "Shut her up or I'll..."

"Step away from the girl."

The man spun around and saw a silhouette standing at the entrance of the alleyway. Their view was obscured by steam escaping from a street vent. Finding themselves trapped, the muggers advanced on the figure blocking their path of escape. "Run along before you get hurt."

"I've a better idea." It was a young man's voice. "Drop the knife and I let you live. I guarantee you; you'll not get a better deal any where else."

"You're crazy. Who do you think you are?"

"Boss!"

"What?"

"Look… On your chest!"

The man with the switchblade glanced down, his blood turning cold when he spotted a red dot drifting near the center of his torso. He saw that his petrified companions were likewise marked, and looking up through the rising steam he made out faint beams of red laser light leading up to the roofs of the buildings sandwiching the alley.

"To answer your question," The figure stepped through the hissing vent and emerged before the robbers, whose eyes widened with recognition and terror. "Lelouch V. Britannia, Prince of the Empire, Leader of the Black Knights, commands you… Scatter, knaves."

They obeyed.

---------

Still curled and immobile from the panic attack, Nina was vaguely aware of rapid footsteps vanishing into the distance but another set of footsteps approaching. She shut her eyes tighter, covering her ears as she tried to block out the world, only to make matters worse because she was left alone with the images from within.

"Miss Einstein. Nina Einstein."

The calm, soothing voice was like an anchor in a stormy sea and her strained senses latched onto it. Slowly, the flood of emotions cleared and her pace of breathing began to return to normal. When she finally opened her eyes the first sight she saw was not the cruel, gleeful faces from her memories, but one which was kind, gentle, and strong.

"You're safe now, Miss Einstein. It's all over." Lelouch knelt down before the girl and carefully placed a hand upon her trembling shoulder—he had witnessed panic attacks and hysteria before, many years ago. "My guards have taken those men into custody. They'll be locked away somewhere far away. They'll never bother you again. You're safe."

"Your… Highness…"

He offered his hand, and she accepted, his warmth passing through their fingers and into her, melting the icy fear that paralyzed her. The reassuring warmth traveled to her core and spread to her extremities, down from her toes and up to her neck and ears. Nina felt like she had just been awaken from a nightmare, and it had been a long time—too long—since she had felt so relieved, so valued, so protected.

"Call me Lelouch."

-----------

As Governor, an important part of Clovis' job was to host and entertain. This he excelled at, and he quickly gained a reputation for being the Master of the Extravaganza. The Governor's Halloween Masquerades were legendary, and his New Year Countdown Parties were the hottest ticket approaching December 31st. Nor did he limit himself to the season's festivities; he hosted teas, charity events, private parties and concerts at his palace and occasionally at venues including Clovis Land. Artists and actors, journalists and judges, magnates and tycoons—the rich and elite and famous from all walks of life, domestic and abroad, were on his guest list, and he on theirs. Thus when it came time to throw his little brother a proper welcome, the Hero of Britannia, to his Area, Clovis pulled out all the stops.

He worked his connections to the media outlets: With two weeks to go until the date of the Welcome Ball, a press release was made, stating that "seven hundred and seventy seven friends of the imperial family" would be invited, backed up by a pre-determined anonymous wait list. The well-timed announcement had its intended effect, and the already considerable excitement surrounding Lelouch's arrival in Area Eleven was elevated to a new level of frenzy. The Governor's office was flooded with so many calls extra secretaries had to be hired. Honorable wives badgered their distinguished husbands to wield their influence and obtain the rare and sought-after invitations, overriding their pleas and tearful explanations that as the event was by invitation, things were ("_really, my dear"_) out of their control.

For a time, the traditional commodities of prize ponies, designer jewelry, and box seats to the opera lost their luster, and High Society in Area Eleven became a caste society divided between the haves and have-nots. The haves, like Kallen Stadtfeld's stepmother, Lady Stadtfeld, basked in the glory and attention of her peers: She and her husband, the one-day-to-be Marquess of Weinstraube-Stadtfeld, were invited to the Governor's Welcome Ball, which made them "Friends to the Imperial Family." The have-nots—those who enjoyed a sense of entitlement in the past but now had no way of knowing whether they were even on the waiting list—were shamed into hiding from public view. Many took long vacations, even as some were flying in from the mainland and other colonies to attend.

The tentacles of the press were there at every step and turn, simultaneously reporting and feeding what was already being billed as one of the most anticipated entertainment events of the year. Diethard Reid took it all in with amusement and great satisfaction; as the man who documented the Prince's military campaign in the desert, he knew he was most responsible for the Prince's rise to fame. He received an invitation of course, but took the unusual step of declining. He chose instead to be at work in his Hi-TV studio, this time as an expert commentator opposite the cable news anchor who would be reporting the event as the evening went on. Here, Diethard felt, was the best seat from which to write and witness the next page in Lelouch V. Britannia's story.

"So Diethard, the Prince is scheduled to arrive any minute now, and I'm sure the question on many people's minds is: Who is he going to show up with tonight?"

Diethard gave the standard runaround. "Well Dianne, as you know we are still technically at war, and while the Prince is supposed to be here on official business, it's understood that he is also here to recoup, just like his veterans are doing. For those reasons, I don't expect him to arrive with a starlet or a supermodel on his arms."

"Are you saying he might go stag?"

"I didn't say that, and I don't think he will, because that would be breaking with protocol. Prince Lelouch is at that stage where is he is just coming into the limelight, and he has important decisions to make regarding his image in public, which will have implications for his career ahead."

"I take that to mean that his choice of a date tonight might be indicative of his plans for the future?"

"We should be careful about reading too much into things, but yes, I believe it could provide a hint of what he's thinking about. For example, if he appeared in uniform with Baroness Villetta Nu, his subordinate, we'd know that he's—for the present at least—more keen on his image as a military man. If he escorts a daughter from a prominent noble family, that may show a leaning towards politics."

The anchor woman chuckled. "And if he showed up with an Eleven?"

Diethard laughed. "Now that would really be a shocking political statement, wouldn't it?"

A flat screen next to the teleprompter showed a cameraman's view of the crowded front entrance to the Strand Hotel, where the red carpet had been rolled out. For the past hour, limousines and luxury cars queued up to disgorge their fashionably attired passengers, especially the ladies, whose outfits—ranging from the conservative to the avant-garde to the positively risqué—presented a walking gallery of color and vanity. A loud stir among the spectators and the media present brought the attention of the news anchor to the screen. "Excuse me, Diethard. But it sounds like the man of the hour may just have arrived. Carol, I'm hearing a lot of excitement down there. What's going on?"

The camera view switched to a female reporter, whose position gave the viewers an up close view of the driveway where guests were disembarking. "Yes Dianne, I've just received word that the Prince's car—you can identify the Lamperouge family crest—has just turned into the Hotel's main boulevard. He should be here momentarily… and here he is!"

A black sedan pulled to a stop right before the red carpet, and a tall footman opened the door. Milly, with her hair done up in an twist, stepped out in an full-length trumpet gown, followed by Lelouch, who wore a black tuxedo, bow tie, and navy blue cummerbund that matched the color of Milly's dress. Oohs and Ahs rose from the admiring gallery at the sight of the young couple, and the smiling pair was immediately assailed by a flood of camera flashes as they proceeded to make their way down the red carpet arm-in-arm.

"That was Reuben Ashford's granddaughter, Millicent. Handsome pair, aren't they? What do you make of it, Diethard?"

"Well Dianne, I think it it's not much of a surprise. The Ashfords are hosting Prince Lelouch and Princess Nunnally during they stay here, and recently we've learned how the Prince presented Reuben with his old title, Earl of Ashfordshire, and concluded a number of business deals with the Group. It's definitely a revival of old ties that date back to Queen Marianne's early days."

"But how much of this is forward thinking by the Prince? Is he merely repaying debts to an old ally or does he plan on taking the Lamperouge-Ashford alliance to a new level?

"I don't know, Dianne. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see…"

--------------

"What a zoo," Lelouch said under his breath while continuing to smile at a girl who tried vainly to reach out and touch him. Hotel security kept the spectators well away from the guests as they walked down the carpet, but he still felt the pressure from the enthusiastic crowd flanking him on both sides. "I should have known Clovis would turn this thing into a carnival."

"Just shows how much he loves you." Milly smiled as she replied confidentially, the two whispering just loud enough for each other to hear. "And you must admit this is kind of fun. You've never dreamed of being an actor?"

"No. And the cameras are hurting my eyes."

"I thought you were used to people taking aim and making flashes at you."

"Not from this close. I also had an army around me then."

Milly squeezed his arm reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll protect you."

_To be Continued_

_

* * *

  
_

**Author's** **Notes**: Sincerest thanks to readers and reviewers new and old, especially the old; your saint-like patience is, well, saint-like. I'd be curious to know if anyone who read Chapter One when it was first published is still with me today. If so, thank you, thank you, thank you.

I've used my week of Spring Break to finish this chapter. It hasn't been much of a vacation; aside from outlining for law school I've been hunting for an internship, harder to do in this Economy we live in. Put together the two are almost a fulltime job. Now that I've got some of my writing groove back though I'm confident the next chapter will come sooner… but you've heard me say that before.

About this Chapter: Still not a lot of Kallen, unless the lengthy introduction counts. You'll notice the heroine's name is Karen, not Kallen, and the Prince from a Roman-esque Empire named Pendragon is never named. So it's possible that this paperback historic romance from the future has nothing to do with our Kallen and Lelouch whatsoever.

I've put off the Party itself for next chapter because this one was getting too long. I apologize if the part about Nina offended or bothered anyone—I do not personally know any victims of sexual assault, but I felt it was the most reasonable explanation for why she hated/feared Japanese people so much. Despite the heavy topic, I enjoyed writing Marika and Villetta's fight. I also hope people liked the way I've portrayed Tamaki and Ohgi, who is the Brains of their little group. We'll be seeing them more. Until Next Time.


	24. Seduce and Destroy

**Chapter 24: Seduce and Destroy**

**Rewritten: May 23, 2010  
**

""_...Courting a man is like robbing a bank. You come up with a list and choose the target. This is followed by research—where are his weaknesses, his vices, who are the important people in his life? The third step is execution, which can be effected stealthily through patient tunneling or directly with guns blazing, each with its own pros and cons. In both cases the object is the same: Accessing the vault—or in our case the wallet. Like bank robbery, Courtship is an endeavor not lightly embarked upon. The complacent and faint-of-heart should return this book to the store now, then sit back and trust family, friends, nosy neighbors, and ad-supported dating websites to find your One and Only for you… _

_But if you're unwilling to gamble with your future—if you're unwilling to wait as the clock on your Best By Date ticks on—active courtship offers the best odds for securing a Happily Ever After. The story of Snow White is instructive in this regard: Prince Charming is a rare and precious commodity, even in fairytales. Of the eight men our heroine encounters only one who is rich, handsome, and worthy of consideration. The other seven are hairy, snotty, sleepy, grouchy, vertically-challenged, anti-social mountain men in their late-fifties to mid-sixties who share a hut. If you wish to catch one of the few Prince Charmings in the real world, it will require much more spunk and initiative than that displayed by Snow White…_

… _Keep in mind the rule of supply and demand: The higher you aim the more competition you can expect. Courting a sixty-two year old thrice-married baronet will not be nearly the challenge as say Prince Schneizel, arguably the world's most eligible bachelor with an income of 160 million Pounds sterling. Again the bank heist analogy: The greater the treasure, the heavier the guards and the thicker the vault doors, and in turn the more digging and daring and bigger dynamite required. Figuratively speaking, the decision of whether to rob a local bank or the Britannian Bullion Depository at Fort Amherst is one you should weigh carefully before you take any action… _

_This book does not attempt to provide a guide to courting actual royalty. But for the truly ambitious, suffice to say that minimum qualifications include: three generations of aristocratic pedigree, a very pleasing appearance, an excellent education, and an unblemished personal record that can stand up to the scrutiny of a thorough background check…"_

"_So You Want to Catch Prince Charming." By Ashley Appleby. Berkeley Publishing, LLC. 2016."_

_

* * *

_

Karl the doorman surveyed the empty lot. He checked his pocket watch; two mad-packed hours had rushed by since the first guest arrived for the Governor's Ball, by far the busiest shift he saw in his five years with the Strand Hotel. Thankfully the reporters and most of the nosy onlookers had dispersed and things were quiet once again. His shift was nearly done, after which he planned to stop by his favorite watering hole. The manager had given him tomorrow off and he was looking forward to a relaxing day at home and sleeping in—a good reward for a fine evening's work.

At that moment a sleek sports car drifted loudly around the driveway and pulled to a screeching halt; someone was very late to the party. Karl stepped quickly up to the landing and opened the door with a bow and a tip of his cap. "Good evening, ma…"

The greeting caught in his throat as the most gorgeous pair of legs he'd ever seen swung out the car door.

* * *

Rivalz munched slowly as he gazed thoughtfully at the ballroom filled with the rich and famous. The chamber orchestra had just finished performing a rousing Strauss and signaled intermission with some light-hearted Mozart. He had fancy food in his belly and fine champagne in his system. He was feeling philosophical. "You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"I know more than half the people here, and yet I feel like a total stranger."

Shirley rolled her eyes and pointed her seared scallop skewer at Rivalz. "Just because you've seen someone on TV doesn't mean you know them."

"True, but you can get to know a lot about someone without ever _knowing _them." Brushing away a crumb, the teenager popped another hors d oeuvres into his mouth. "Like that guy there, Shin Seijuro. I know he plays for the Forty-Niners, sacked opposing quarterbacks twenty-two times last season, and gives half his paycheck to charities who help the Elevens."

"So why don't you go talk to him?"

"Are you kidding? He'd snap me in half like a toothpick." Rivalz gave Shirley a sheepish look. "I mean, it's probably bad manners asking for autographs at a party, right?"

Nina, clutching a glass of fruit punch, looked apprehensively at certain faces in the crowd. "Why are there Elevens here?"

"Got invited, just like us." Rivalz took a swig from his glass. "Japanese celebrities didn't lose their status just because their nationalities switched, and you know how much the Governor LOVES celebrities."

"I'm sure these people are alright." Shirley placed a comforting arm around Nina's shoulder; she was surprised Nina decided to attend after the mugging attempt, as well as how quickly she recovered emotionally after Prince Lelouch had come to their rescue.

"I mean, yeah, of course!" Rivalz piped in to reassure his worried friend. "All of them here are honorary citizens, if not full citizens. Not at all like those Numbers you ran into."

Nina chewed her lower lip; a sour taste welled up in the back of her throat but she swallowed it down. "… But they all look the same."

* * *

Marika was perched on a sofa in a sitting area away from the center of activity. She kept a polite distance from Villetta, who was seated on the opposite end. The two arrived together, and though the young lieutenant remained upset at her superior, she also felt a tiny bit of guilt for the hurtful words she said the day before. "No sign of danger or suspicious persons, ma'am."

"Not expecting any." Villetta sipped her daiquiri. "We're not working tonight. You should go enjoy yourself."

"Oh I will." _As soon as one of these men get a clue. _Marika was wearing a pastel blue gown that she purchased last minute. The color made her look younger than her age, but due to her own stubbornness she had no time to be choosy. She had been brought up proper, in a society where the weight of style rivaled a person's substance. With the media out in force tonight she knew that showing up in her military uniform would have been shockingly inappropriate, unprofessional even; Kewell would have rolled in his grave.

Her companion, on the other hand, was able to find an outfit that complemented her perfectly. No surprise there—tall, tanned, well-proportioned women tend to have an easier time finding dresses that look good. It irked her to admit it, but the Baroness Villetta Nu was beautiful and elegant, despite her time on the frontlines, and it was obvious who received the lion's share of attention. As if to prove her point, a gentleman walked up and bowed to the older woman. "Excuse me, ma'am, but may I have the pleasure of this next dance?"

Villetta smiled but shook her head. "Thank you for the invitation, but I'm on duty."

Marika stared after the dejected suitor before turning to her superior. "You just said…"

"I know, but it's a good excuse when you're not feeling social." She paused to reflect for a moment before continuing, "It's probably why I joined the military."

"You're jesting."

She chuckled. "It's true. I decided early on it was the best way to get my parents to stop bugging me to get married."

"Clearly, it hasn't stopped men from trying."

The pair spun towards the eavesdropper, a tall young man dressed in a crisp tuxedo. Villetta recognized him instantly. "Claudio! What are you doing here?"

"General Gottwald sent me here on a covert mission." He smiled and extended his hand towards Marika. "I don't believe we've met: Captain Claudio Darlton. First Regiment, Second Battalion Knightmare Company, pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Lieutenant Marika Soresi." It was rare to see an officer with such curly hair; she found it kind of cute. "Its bad operations security to tell people you're on a secret mission, you know."

"My cover is blown." He frowned and touched his forehead melodramatically; Marika giggled. "Actually, the general just wanted me out of his hair for a while; called me a worse nagger than his mother. I've been given orders to make reports to the Prince on the division's progress."

It was a long flight just to make a progress report. "Is that all?"

"I've also orders not to return for a while, preferably a month." Concern appeared on the young captain's face, "Things have been kind of hectic at the division. I try my best to keep matters organized, but I'm afraid I've tread on the general's toes more than once in the process."

Villetta laughed and shook her head. "You're doing fine. Jeremiah just doesn't like neat organized people. The two of you will learn to live with each other."

"That's reassuring." Picking up two Martinis from a passing waiter, the captain handed one to Marika before turning to face the ballroom. "Where is the Prince by the way? I arrived a bit late so I didn't hear them announce him."

The fact that Claudio didn't question her age before getting her a drink made her like him even better. "His Highness is busy meeting the locals, been at it since he walked in."

Across the ballroom, Lelouch's shoulder sagged with the kind of weariness that comes from continuous mandatory schmoozing. The only break he received was when Clovis called for attention and made a welcome speech that went on for eight minutes, after which he called Lelouch to the podium amidst thunderous applause. Reflecting the brothers' difference in personalities, Lelouch's speech lasted less than two minutes, and then the parade of well-wishers and dignitaries resumed. He made a pleading face at his childhood friend, whose experience navigating high society and her role as Student Council President gave her intimate knowledge of the upper crust, which made her the perfect guide to get to know who's who in Area Eleven. "How many more important people do I need to see tonight?"

"You're the one who asked me to do this, so no complaining." Milly walked side by side with Lelouch, her hand resting in the crook of his arm. "There are just a few more. Then we can call it a day."

Lelouch took a deep breath; he could handle a few more. "Very well, who is next?"

"Lord Stadtfeld, the next Marquess of Weinstraube-Stadtfeld. He owns pieces of prime real estate in the Areas and has lots of noteworthy friends. His wife, Lady Stadtfeld, is somewhat of a gossip queen; handle with care."

The prince spotted the couple in question; the name rung a bell. "Stadtfeld, the same…?"

"Yes. They're Kallen's parents, although she doesn't mention them often." Something niggled in back of Milly's mind, but she couldn't pinpoint it and decided not to bring it up. "Lady Stadtfeld recently bought a thoroughbred named Star Dancer for two million Pounds."

"Got it." Lelouch closed the distance with a few quick strides and thrust his hand towards the middle-aged gentleman, who had the look of a serious man but was presently taken by surprise. "Lord Stadtfeld, thank you so much for coming. I'm honored that the Tycoon of Tokyo himself made time for this little gathering of ours."

The prince watched as surprise slowly transformed into delight. A smile spread across the real estate magnate's face as he returned the handshake firmly. "The pleasure is all mine. I wouldn't have missed this for the best commercial land in the Concession."

"By that you must mean the parts you don't own already." The prompted a round of hearty laughter from the small group. Lelouch turned to the wife, who was surprised and delighted to find herself personally addressed by royalty. "Lady Stadtfeld, I hear you've acquired a new colt. Will Star Dancer be racing in this year's derby?"

"Yes, yes she will!" Flattered that the prince knew of her newest pride and joy, Lady Stadtfeld's face lit up like a bulb. "She's getting used to the climate here, but I'm confident she'll make the podium three months from now."

"Perhaps I shall wager on her when the time comes." Lelouch was pleased—in two minutes of conversation he had gained the good graces of another influential couple. "I have not seen Kallen all night. Did she not come with you?"

The older couple exchanged looks. Lady Stadtfeld appeared especially confused. "No, I was not aware that she was invited. Only two invitations were delivered to our home…"

"I asked Milly to personally invite those on the student council." Sensing something amiss, the Prince continued. "She never mentioned this?"

The Stadtfelds shook their heads. At that moment the herald—stationed by the entrance and who had been silent for the better part of half-an hour—announced the latest to arrive in a booming baritone that traveled over the din of the party.

"The Honorable Miss Kallen Stadtfeld."

Lelouch eyes moved towards the entrance. Many others also turned around, curious to see the sort of person who shows up two hours late.

Then he saw her.

The partygoers parted like the Red Sea as she made her way towards center of the dance floor. Silver high heel sandals clicked softly upon the hardwood floor as the latecomer stepped into full view; conversations paused, voices hushed, men forgot to breathe. A sheer red evening gown glided across the contours of her body like waves caressing a tropical beach. Her skin—revealed from her shoulders to the small of her back and along her thighs—was a sun-kissed tone of honey, contrasting against the paleness of most of the other ladies. Her brilliantly-colored hair was done up in a bun with a single pin, revealing a mouth-wateringly smooth nape. She was Aphrodite; regal, haughty, in command, and her arrival cast a spell over all who saw her.

"Wow." Rivalz, who had been gawking with eyes like saucers, reached to loosen his collar. "I didn't know Kallen had a smoking hot twin."

And then she saw him.

Their eyes met, locked, and Kallen approached the Prince, who was not unaffected by the vision before him in spite of his outward composure. The first time he had seen her she had been pretty and demure, now she was stunning, arresting, with a rebellious air and a scent of danger. He remembered years ago, when Cornelia had given him "the talk," and told him about women who wielded their irresistible charms like poison; his sister might have been warning him about the girl before him now. "Good evening, Miss Stadtfeld."

"Your Highness."

She curtsied, and the Prince's throat felt dry when he almost caught a view down the front of her dress. "You seem… different."

She chuckled. "First impressions can be misleading."

"Indeed." Already he was coming to realize that there was much more to the girl than just a pretty face. "Your parents and I were just talking about you."

"Good evening father, mother." Kallen looked coolly at her stepmother. "I wanted to surprise you, which is why I didn't tell you about my invitation. I hope you'll forgive me."

Lelouch felt Lady Stadtfeld's radiating displeasure and decided to intervene before they drew more attention. "You've come at a good time; dinner will soon be served. Seating is prearranged, but I can have a chair added to my table."

Kallen smiled graciously; this cloak and dagger gig was almost too easy. "That would be lovely."

* * *

Dinner was a roundtable affair. Governor Clovis, eager to meet his little brother's new friends from school, arranged to have Lelouch, Milly, Kallen, and the rest of the student council sit with him. True to his reputation, he was a generous and gracious host even to teenagers, with an astonishing breadth of knowledge that he employed to keep the conversation inclusive of all participants—Food, travel, the latest movies and fashions, the newest innovations in consumer electronics. All things leisure were within Clovis' purview. By the time the soup had been cleared away and the first entrée served, the topic had moved once more to the man of the hour. "So, Lelouch, how are you enjoying Area Eleven?"

"Alright, except for the one incident, everything has been up to par."

"Ah yes. Sadly, where there's dense population there's bound to be correspondingly high rates of crime." Clovis learned about the mugging attempt from Lelouch shortly after the culprits—three undocumented Elevens from the Shinjiku Ghetto—were arrested. By way of apology, he had bouquets delivered to and personally phoned Shirley and Nina at their homes to assure them that he would do everything in his power to clamp down on crime in the future.

Shirley, who was sitting two seats away from Clovis, thanked a server as he refilled her water glass. "The situation must be especially tough here; so many commute between the Concession and the outer districts, it would be easy for a criminal to slip through unnoticed."

"If I remember correctly, prior to the establishment of Area Eleven Japan had one of the lowest crime rates in the world." Kallen swirled the champagne in her glass as she continued in a teasing tone. "A pity that crime rates are up after seven years of Britannian rule, in spite of Your Highness' diligent administration."

Clovis laughed uneasily. "Well, I mean, that's…"

"Regime change is always followed in the short term by increased levels in crime and unrest. Area Eleven is no exception."

Everyone turned towards Lelouch, who was working on his wild caught sea bass. The prince continued. "In fact, compared to Britannian experience with other Areas, Japan has reovered at a remarkable pace; GDP—which had been stagnant for two decades prior to invasion—is back at prewar levels. Debt and organized crime is down, employment and consumer spending is up."

"Yes, exactly!" Bolstered by his brother's assist, Clovis leaned forward in his chair. "The Elevens had been living under a failing democracy for what, seven decades? They've been ruled by hereditary plutocrats in a system paralyzed by special interest and cronyism. Their balance sheet was a disaster—without intervention Japan would surely have gone bankrupt. Now we're able to deliver public services at far less cost to the taxpayer than before. All things considered, I'd say things have never been better for the Elevens."

Kallen seethed inwardly. "But isn't it true that millions who live in the ghettos still lack regular water and electricity? Not to mention safe housing and job opportunities."

"Your concern for the Numbers is touching, Miss Stadtfeld. Of course, the welfare of all imperial subjects is of utmost importance to us. However, with limited resources, the development of Regular and Honorary Citizens—the most productive members of our society—must be prioritized." Clovis smiled kindly at the young woman, "And then there's the terrorist threat, not that you or anyone should be concerned, as they've been rather quiet lately."

The young freedom fighter clenched her hands beneath the table. "Perhaps they're just biding their time."

Lelouch signaled the server to clear his plate. "Or they've realized the futility of their cause and come to grips with reality."

"Oh? And what reality might that be?"

"That the Elevens have embraced their new regime and moved on with their lives."

Lelouch looked straight at Kallen, who looked straight back. He was intrigued by this girl; unconventional, unflinching, and unafraid to speak her mind, traits which he admired and found to be so rare among the aristocratic class. She obviously had some sympathy towards the Numbers, which was unremarkable in and of itself. It was easy to feel sorry for the former Japanese, once one had seen the conditions in which they lived. Of course, most aristocrats-or Britannians, for that matter-had not seen the ghettos, and so the plight of the empire's newest rank of third-class citizens went largely unnoticed except by NGOs and a few enlightened noblemen; he decided Kallen was probably amongst them, and that explained her more liberal views.

Unsure what to make of the sudden tension, the members of the student council turned to their president, who appeared highly amused. Waiters served up red wine to accompany the upcoming meat course. Clovis tapped the side of his glass with a spoon. "I think that's quite enough politics for one night. A toast! To my little brother: May your stay in Area Eleven be full of new discovery and pleasant surprises."

Everyone raised their glasses. Lelouch touched his glass against Clovis and Milly's to his right. Never adept at detecting the mercurial moods of women, he smiled at Kallen, who was seated to his left. "Cheers."

She smiled back, and then she reached up and emptied her glass of wine over his head.

Kallen heard several gasps from neighboring tables—the commotion caused by a woman passing out sounded like her stepmother. Her friends were aghast, her mission was a wash, along with three month's worth of allowance for the dress and the car; but it was all worth it to see the look on the arrogant bastard's face.

"Cheers!"

* * *

To avoid causing further sensation amongst the guests, the prince was promptly and discreetly escorted from the party by hotel staff so that he could clean up and change. Immediately after—blaming the effect of alcohol on her weak temperament for her unseemly behavior—Kallen bid goodnight to her friends and excused herself. But instead of heading for the front entrance, she hurried to the front desk, where it was a simple matter to learn which room the prince was being taken to: A suite on the fourth floor. Moving quickly, she reached the correct room and waited outside the door. She didn't have to wait long; a few minutes later the elevator door opened and a fresh faced bellboy stepped out balancing several bags and a box. He was surprised when he saw Kallen, who presented him with her best flirtatious smile. "Are these clothes for Prince Lelouch?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you, I can take it from here."

"Um, I'm not sure I'm allowed…"

"Stephen, is it?" She read his nametag as she reached for the bags. "Listen, the Prince is… expecting me, and no one else knows about our rendezvous. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

A blush accompanied his look of realization. "Perfectly ma'am."

"Good. We would be really grateful if you could keep this to yourself and not let anyone disturb us till morning." More than enough time for her to knock the prince out, tie him and gag him, call Ougi and Tamaki to bring the van and a large suitcase, roll their prisoner downstairs to the underground parking lot, and make good their escape. It was a simple and effective Plan B—far better, she felt, than feigning interest in the loutish prince over an indefinite period—and she congratulated herself for her fast thinking.

She took a folded fifty pound note and tucked it in Stephen's chest pocket. "And there's more where that came from."

The bellboy nodded emphatically. "You got it, ma'am. Call for me if you need anything, anything at all! I'll be right here in a jiffy."

He turned and took off before Kallen stopped him. "Stephen!"

"Yes?"

She smiled, lifting the bags in her hands. "I need you to help me open the door."

"Oh right! Sorry ma'am, I completely forgot." A swipe of the keycard unlocked the doors, which the bellboy held open for Kallen. "I'll leave this card with you. Please enjoy your stay, ma'am."

"Thank you. Goodnight."

The doors closed, and Kallen was left all alone with her prey. The suite was spacious and lavishly appointed. Kallen heard the sound of someone in the shower. She pulled out the hairpin, freeing her hair into its natural state. Kicking off her heels, she tiptoed silently on the thickly carpeted floor towards the bathroom. As she drew close, she took a small sowing bag from her purse; the press of a secret button produced a concealed blade. The sound of running water grew louder. Taking a deep calming breath, she put her hand on the knob and turned softly; the door was unlocked. She cracked open the door. The bathroom was filled with steam. Her vision was obscured but she could still make out her target's silhouette behind the shower curtains. She slid in silently and backed the door shut. Knife in hand, she reached out and threw back the curtains…

… And was surprised to find a pistol pressed up against her chest. In turn, Lelouch was dismayed to feel a blade held beneath his chin, where the slightest pressure would severe his jugular, leading to lethal blood loss in a short amount of time. Their bodies and faces were close to each other, separated by mere inches, the heat and humidity in the room masking nervous perspiration by both as they stood in a tense standoff.

Cornelia had been right. Beautiful women are dangerous.

Lelouch swallowed, the action causing him to feel even more keenly the pressure from the knife's edge. Sweat ran down the side of his face; he flexed his trigger finger. He studied the multitude of emotions on the intruder's face: Surprise, fear, outrage, panic—if she was an assassin she was a poorly trained one, although it wouldn't require a professional to kill him under the circumstances. But if she was an amateur, then there was hope for them both to walk away alive... "Like what you see?"

"Huh?"

"This may be stating the obvious, but… I'm naked."

Momentarily distracted from the gun aimed at between her breasts, Kallen looked down, and produced a very un-assassin-like shriek, causing Lelouch to wince. His initial theory appeared to be on shaky ground as his assailant covered her eyes with her free hand before remembering her need to keep an eye on him, which, due to his bareness, placed her in a predicament. She eventually settled on peeking through the cracks between her fingers while avoiding looking down. "WHY ARE YOU NAKED?"

It was an amusing reaction and not at all what he expected. "Usually, people undress for showers."

"I know that!" Her eyes drifted down—partly by accident—before snapping back up; the desperation of her situation competed with a need to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Lelouch was worried. He did not enjoy being in his current position, held at knifepoint by an excited girl-whose purpose remained a mystery to him-while naked. To make matters worse, the spray from the shower had made her wet from head to toe, which made the sheer fabric of her gown turn almost translucent, clinging to her skin and mapping every dip and curve, which meant he could—and did—see everything, which made it hard for him to concentrate.

Realizing what was causing his distraction, Kallen hastily tried to cover herself with her free hand (revealing her burning face) while shifting her body, but her efforts were in vain. Angry, embarrassed tears threatened to spill over-how could she have messed up so badly? "What are you looking at?"

"You, but could you blame me considering the situation we're in?" He noticed the tears and cleared his throat, softening his tone. "Listen. Kallen… you don't mind if I call you Kallen, do you?"

Her mind was racing, her heart was pounding. "... No."

"Kallen, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I don't know who sent you..."

"No one sent me."

"Okay. I don't know what I've done to anger you, but I'm truly, deeply sorry if I've upset you in any way. I want to make it up, but first I need to know one thing: Why are you here?"

Kallen was bewildered: Was he playing for time? Was it possible that he didn't know, that her cover had not been blown? Even so, there was no way on earth she could come up with an explanation that could save her from the current situation; her life hung by a miniscule thread and there was no escape.

"I… I wanted to get to know you…… more intimately."

She shut her eyes in anticipation of the gunshot. But when three, then ten seconds, then fifteen seconds went by without anything happening, she slowly reopened her eyes. To her astonishment, Lelouch's expression was not one of cruel satisfaction or disbelief, but of a man deep in thought. Unbeknownst to her, her explanation—which wouldn't convince a fifth grader under normal circumstances—actually made a good deal of sense to the Eleventh Prince of the Holy Britannian Empire.

His mind traveled back to a few years ago: Early on, as part of his plan for revenge, Lelouch had set out not only to curry the favor of the ruling class but also popular support from the masses. He succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. He was not only a war hero but a celebrity idol, a frequent feature in entertainment as well as political news. Fame however carried unforeseen consequences. For example, he became wildly popular with girls and young women. Not that he particularly coveted their attention, but it was always nice to have fans… or so he thought.

The first sign of trouble came when he began receiving small locks of hair in the mail. Although somewhat creeped out, he appreciated the sentiment behind the gestures. This was followed by strange faxes and phone calls. Then fan sites—which began as harmless portals of adulation and innocent hero worship—became more fanatical, publishing scandalous tales featuring him and his subordinates, even his half-siblings. Then he noticed that some of his clothes went missing, later spotted at an online auction site dealing in celebrity collectibles.

Things came to a head when four girls disguised as maids infiltrated the palace grounds and made it so far as the entrance to the Aeries Palace before their ruse was detected and they were taken into into custody. Security guards found rope, chloroform, and a brand new yard waste bin large enough to fit a person inside. Upon questioning it was revealed that the four (all minors) had hatched up a plan to "borrow" the eleventh prince. They were to have taken him to a secret location and return him two days later by leaving the prince-unconscious and unharmed-besides a busy street for the authorities to discover. In the end, the Fan-tastic Four (unimaginatively dubbed by the press) were handed suspended sentences plus many hours of community service after Lelouch intervened on their behalf. He was never one to pass up good publicity, and the public reacted favorably to the leniency shown by the prince, who was now not only praised for his bravery and brilliance, but also his mercy and kindness. That was also when Lelouch decided things had gotten out of hand, and that going someplace faraway and lying low for a bit while passions cooled sounded like a good idea…

… But now, six thousand miles away, he learned there was no escaping from a woman if she was determined to have him, like the one standing before him. He had seen girls angry at him, especially recently, after some irresponsible news outlets began reporting that the warming of Lamperouge-Ashford ties could result in marriage. He knew how scary a woman's envy can be-though he could never understand the why. He knew he was at least partially responsible; had he been more careful building and cultivating his public image, perhaps none of this would have happened. And now, this girl from a prestigious English family had plunged herself into scandal by spilling wine on him and sneaking into his hotel room in order to be alone with him.

_Perhaps_, thought the prince, _this poor girl is merely besotted with me._

It did explain a lot things: the mercurial personality, the lying to her parents, the pains she took to impress him... even the wine might just have been a plan to get him out of his clothes. He wondered about the knife, whether it was an assassin's weapon or merely this fan-girl-turned-stalker's chloroform of choice. He studied her again, this upset, blushing girl flustered by seeing him and being seen by him; surely a committed mercenary, the likes of which he encountered in North Africa, would have cut his throat already. That left only one possibility. "… I understand now."

His minute of silent pondering had felt like an hour. "Excuse me?"

"I think I know why you're here." He lowered his gun a few inches, and after a few moment's hesitation she reciprocated by taking her knife out from under his chin, but still within striking distance. "You fell in love with me before we even met. When we did meet it was like a dream come true, and you felt compelled to act on a once in a lifetime opportunity, thereby devising this plot to have me alone and to yourself."

Kallen was about to protest but bit her tongue. She nodded silently, ashamedly, like an underage pantie-thief caught in the act. She had been grasping blindly at straws when she invented an excuse for her presence in his room; she had no idea that he would buy it. This was her only way out.

Lelouch observed her closely and continued. "… But, the sight of my intimate familiarity with Milly and news of our impending engagement—just rumors, by the way—proved too much for you to handle. Which explains the knife; you came tonight determined you were going to have me, or no one would."

It was like something out of a bad paperback romance. Kallen swallowed her pride and nodded again, lowering her knife further for dramatic effect. Confidence in his theory bolstered, Lelouch turned off the shower before he continued in the manner of a detective explaining the circumstances of a sensational crime he recently solved.

"Perhaps... what caused you to snap is you compared yourself to Milly and you found that your assets fell short of hers. You were afraid that-used to seeing Mt. Everest-I would pay no attention to your Mt. McKinleys." From reading on the internet, Lelouch learned that women were sensitive and vain about their size as men were to certain body parts, hence the wide selection of commercial products and procedures offered to increase size. Milly-blessed from birth and needing zero assistance in that department-would naturally be the envy of any woman. "So you brought your knife as backup. In case you failed to seduce me, you could, _ahem_, have your way with me or die trying."

For a moment, Kallen reconsidered stabbing the man in front of her, even if it meant getting shot.

She could not decide which was worse; getting arrested and executed as a terrorist, or being misunderstood as attempting to force herself on this sleaze ball, not just because she was a lust-driven stalker... but because she was jealous of Milly's BREASTS? The incredible thing was that Lelouch-by all accounts a brilliant mind-appeared sincere. She even caught an unmistakable look of pity, which incensed her further; was it possible that the man acknowledged by both Europe and Britannia as a military genius could be this clueless when it came to understanding women?

The irony, of course, was that no matter how wrong Lelouch was-and he was wrong, off by a mile-there was nothing she could say to defend herself, as to do so would be suicidal. Tempted though she was to grab him by the throat and beat some sense into the chauvinistic idiot, she decided that bearing the shame and surviving was the more noble order.

At that moment, when it seemed like things might resolve peacefully, the doorbell rang. Kallen attempted to spin around but her bare feet slipped against the slick tiles. Arms flailing, she fell towards Lelouch.

* * *

Marika watched as her superior attempted a third call. "Any luck?"

"No answer." Villetta returned her cell phone to her purse. She had been trying to reach her commander after she heard about the wine spill, but to no avail. She looked to see Claudio jogging back towards where she and Marika were standing. "Well?"

"The front desk called his room but no one is answering. I've got the master key though."

"Let's go then."

The three officers piled into the elevator. Claudio pressed for the fourth floor, and then stared bug-eyed when Villetta hiked up the hem of her dress and reached through the side slit in between her legs. He exhaled when she removed a compact pistol that had been strapped against her inner thigh. "You could have given me warning."

Her mind was on more important things. "Are you two carrying?"

"Yes." Getting on one knee, Claudio pulled out a pistol from a hidden ankle holster; his father had a policy of never leaving home unarmed, and taught his sons to do the same.

Marika frowned. She, unlike these ridiculous grownups, did not smuggle a gun to a banquet. "Is this really necessary? For all we know, he could have met a girl at the party; maybe he just wanted some privacy."

"I seriously doubt that." The elevator door rung open and Villetta stepped out into the empty hallway. "If his highness was seeing anyone—and he is not—I would be the first to know."

They knocked on the door, then rung the doorbell. No answer. The three exchanged looks. They swiped open the door. Claudio raised his eyebrows at the hairpin and the pair of women's heels lying on the floor. No sooner had they entered than they heard a muffled crash from further inside the suite. Villetta and Claudio advanced in tandem and with guns at the ready flung open the bathroom door. "Your highness, are you…!"

What they found was a half-naked girl—who Marika and Villetta remembered seeing from Ashford Academy—lying on top of their completely naked prince. Fittingly, the couple looked up like guilty teenagers caught in the act; his arms were around the small of her back, her face was tucked against his neck, his knee was bent up against her groin, her breasts were mashed against his chest. They had been showering together, were red in the face, and breathing heavily. The curtains were nearly torn clean off, implying the haste and passion with which they embraced one another.

It was an intensely awkward moment. "My lord, is… is everything alright?"

By a small miracle, neither her purse knife nor his gun had gone off when she suddenly dove into him. Both weapons were pressed against the side of the bathtub and out of sight from his subordinates; Lelouch then made one of the most fateful snap judgments of his life.

"Yes, everything is fine."

Claudio put away his weapon and did his best to refrain from grinning. Marika smirked and shot a pointed glance at Villetta, as if to say _I told you so._ The baroness was mortified and unable to look straight at her commander. "I um, tried to reach you, sir. You didn't answer, so…"

Lelouch thought fast; he had caught her red-handed, breaking into his room and threatening him with a knife. On the other hand, her last name was Stadtfeld, and her father was a man with whom good relations could go far. He also considered himself somewhat responsible for the poor girl falling head over heels for him, and felt obliged to salvage her reputation as best he could. As Clovis was fond of saying: with great mojo comes great responsibility. "Sorry for not answering. I've been sort of busy."

"Quite right, sir."

"I'm going to ask the three of you to keep this to yourselves. Not a word to anyone; not to my family, not to Miss Stadtfeld's family, and certainly not Clovis. If anyone asks, tell them I decided to spend the night here because I was tired and had too much to drink. Tell them Miss Stadtfeld stayed for the same reasons at a different suite. I'll phone the hotel shortly for to arrange for a second room for us. Is that clear?"

"Very good, sir." Lelouch's orders were so thorough and succinct the three officers could not help but think that he pulled this sort of shenanigan all the time. "Sorry for interrupting. Good night sir. Good night, Miss Stadtfeld, and uh, enjoy your stay."

The trio filed out. Lelouch sank into the empty tub as both he and Kallen heaved a deep sigh of relief. It was late. He was exhausted. His body ached in ten different places, his subordinates were under the impression that he sneaked out for a quickie with the girl who had embarrassed him in a public setting. He had a feeling that he'd have some explaining to do in the morning.

Kallen's heart was pounding, her head hurt from inside and out, but she was alive. _Alive!_ And free to fight another day. The tension drained from her body so suddenly she all but collapsed as she let her eyes drift close, her entire weight resting on top of the smooth, inviting mattress that was a bit uneven but was warm and smelled pleasantly of clean soap and...

"Um, could you get off me?"

Her eyes flew open. She saw his face so close she could feel his breath. Lelouch struggled mightily to stay still, because he could feel her heartbeat, which meant she could feel his, and every move he made could literally (and figuratively) rub her in the wrong way, and he definitely wanted to avoid that.

For both prince and outlaw, it was truly a night to forget.

* * *

"Sayako-san."

The maid had just finished tucking in the princess. "Yes, milady?"

"Has my brother called?"

"No milady. He did say that the banquet could go on quite late, and that you should not wait for him."

"I'd like to stay up just a while longer, if you do not mind."

"Certainly, milady."

After making sure that Nunally was comfortably propped up with pillows, Sayako left and returned with a mug of warm milk with a bit of honey and a cup of tea for herself. With the soothing melody of a nocturne playing quietly on radio, Nunally blew carefully on the surface of her hot drink. "Sayako-san."

"Yes milady."

"Do you think brother is enjoying his time here?"

"I believe so; if not, the young mistress will see to it that he does."

Nunally smiled—she wanted nothing but for her brother to make friends, have fun, and live happily. "I'm glad we're here in Area Eleven."

_To be Continued._

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **First time I rewrote a chapter after publishing; the emerging consensus from reader feedback however was that I had taken the slapstick too far, and the shower-scene became OOC. I hope this repairs things somewhat.**  
**

From start to finish this chapter took seven days of diligent writing. Prior to that, my life was consumed by final exams for a month. Summer course will begin soon and after that is an internship at a foreign country. Nevertheless, I hope to up the productivity significant during the next three months.

The inspiration for this chapter came from early on in season one, when Code Geass caused a stir with an intense shower scene featuring Kallen and Lelouch. At the outset I wanted to explore the possibility of how things would play out in reverse, with a nude Lelouch instead. A key to the chapter was Lelouch's ego (about his own popularity and intelligence) and canon insensitivity to women, which worked together to allow Kallen to get out of what seemed like an impossible favorite part was picturing Lelouch, naked with Kallen molded against him, giving orders as if nothing was out of the ordinary. This is only the beginning of Kallen and Lelouch's tumultuous encounters, and much more lies in store for them. The next chapter should carry a more serious tone, as well as a more involved role for other characters including Suzaku.

Thank you all for your patience and reading. I hope you'll continue to follow this story.


	25. Killing with Kindness

**Chapter 25: ****Killing with Kindness**

"_The Grande __Armée__'s successful crossing of the Channel in 1806 sealed Britain's fate, and was followed by carnage not seen since the Mongols rode south and west... Words cannot describe the atrocities and depravity experienced by those who suffered them. Once landed the Emperor Napoleon's armies carried all, and he rewarded his soldiers by permitting them to loot to their heart's content. Emboldened by the lawless behavior of their liberators, revolutionary mobs sprang like weeds across the country and began to attack the landed, the educated, the clergy, the wealthy. A guillotine was erected on every plaza and in every town square. All suspected loyalists—their families, friends, associates and servants—were seized and beheaded. The machines operated through day and night; the smithy made his fortune replacing worn out blades. All kneeled equal before Madame Guillotine—men, women, the infirm, the young—as crowds screamed "Liberty, equality, fraternity" along with the equally popular motto, "Rape, kill, burn"… _

_Terror and madness took hold of the Isles. The violence became so egregious even Napoleon became appalled, but tried too late to rein in the out of control mobs. None were safe; anyone with a grievance against his neighbor need only point out his victim to the nearest Revolutionary Committee and the deed would be done by morning. The streets of London ran red and flowed into the Thames, turning water to blood like the Biblical plague. Cathedrals and churches and abbeys were razed to the ground, their inhabitants and those who sought sanctuary butchered, but not before the invaluable artworks and texts were carried to Paris. Tombs were unearthed, remains of noble ancestors desecrated. Sleepless nights filled with wails and screams as the Revolutionary Committees made their rounds. Families were pulled from their homes, fathers and sons mutilated, mothers and daughters dragged naked through the streets by their hair. Merciful parents poisoned their children before hanging themselves..._

_Those who could flee fled before Napoleon's armies, flying for the coast, praying, begging, selling themselves for a place on a ship bound for America. The docks of Liverpool became a human sea of misery and farewells eternal as tearful parents passed their infant children to strangers fortunate enough to secure passage. Everything that floated was pressed into service; fishing boats and pleasure yachts and merchantmen left York, Norfolk, and Charleston empty and returned filled with refugees. Corsairs and French warships preyed upon this trans-Atlantic traffic, hunting for wealthy passengers and discarding the others overboard, their victims washing onto English shores daily by the thousands. The Britannian Navy—in disarray after Trafalgar—suffered heavily escorting their precious cargo to the New World. The violence claimed no less than one out of every eight Englishmen, while roughly the same ratio eventually made the Atlantic voyage… _

_Now, a__ generation after__ the Passage of Tears__, __accounts__ of the horrors __which __took place__ during Britannia's darkest hour__ live__s__ on __through __theatre, print, pamphlets, the pulpit and school__ instruction__. The flames of anti-republican zeal burn brightly in the heart of every individual, which they apply towards innovation, education, commerce, industry and expansion in hopes that one day their children will sail forth to reclaim all they have lost. The nation—from the street vagrant to His Majesty the Duke—has adopted Francophobia as their ethos. Britannia will never forgive and never forget, and though she is weak now, I fear that centuries from now the day of reckoning shall come, and our posterity shall pay for their forefathers' sins when descendants of the great exodus fleet return to exact revenge…"_

_L'Ancien Régime en Amérique (183__8__)__; The Ancient Regime in America, __by Alexis de Tocqueville."_

_

* * *

_

Kallen's knuckles were taut white around the steering wheel as she floored the pedal. Running a red light, she sliced through six lanes of busy traffic, leaving gridlock and road rage in her wake. Fortunately, the patrol car they stole was built to withstand this sort of abusive maneuvering during high speed chases. Unfortunately on this night, she and her companions were not giving chase, but being chased.

A low-flying police helicopter locked its searchlight on the fleeing vehicle, its loud speakers coming to life. "Halt! Halt or we will fire on you!"

Tamaki leaned out the window from the backseat and flipped his pursuer the bird. "You'll never take me alive, coppers!"

"Tamaki! Don't…"

Before anyone could stop him the hot blooded freedom fighter opened fire. The helicopter responded to the muzzle flashes by pulling up and away. Tamaki made a whooping fist pump. "That's right! Run, you yellow bastards!"

A second later he was hanging on for dear life, losing his gun and nearly falling out of the car when Kallen swerved just in time to avoid the stream of tracers that chewed up the pavement besides them. Ougi reached back and grabbed his friend by the pants. Tamaki fell into the backseat shaken and sweating. "They're shooting at us!"

"No duh!" Kallen—designated getaway driver because it was discovered long ago that she had a talent for mastering all things on wheels—cut across a curb and knocked down a fire hydrant in the process, the resultant geyser putting precious distance between them and their persistent pursuer.

Ougi checked his watch. "Any time now. C'mon, c'mon…"

All of a sudden the surroundings went black. The only lights left on were vehicle headlights on the street, the helicopter's searchlight, and the image of a fireball rising dramatically into the night sky in the rearview mirror. The explosive charge they planted at the power grid control station had done its work, knocking out electricity and plunging one-tenth of the Tokyo Concession into darkness, including the sector they were currently in. Soon the helicopter aborted its chase due to danger of collision against now invisible skyscrapers, and a cheer went up in the car. "Finally, a job gone according to plan!"

Kallen breathed a sigh of relief as the sound from the helicopter faded into the distance. Another close escape—her second in two weeks. Unlike her last adventure, which ended in the slimy prince lending her his jacket and escorting her out of his room, they had accomplished their mission tonight, sending the Empire an unmistakable reminder that the resistance was still around and still in the fight.

"Take that, Lelouch."

* * *

The next morning Lelouch sat down to breakfast with Nunally in the first floor kitchen. Sayoko set the table for three. On occasion members of the student council would join them for meals. At other times Milly came alone, letting herself in with the clubhouse keys she kept in her capacity as President. So while security around the perimeter of Ashford Academy had been fortified to Lelouch's satisfaction, he found himself powerless to prevent these home invasions by the enemy within. As a result he turned increasingly to Sayoko as a source of early warning for when her mistress would visit—like a weather forecast, but reliable. In today's case, the three sets of silverware was his cue, and he sighed like a man in the field who saw rain clouds approach.

Sayoko placed a rack of white and wheat toast on the table and left to retrieve the main course when the phone rang. Lelouch answered. "Hello?"

"Lelouch!"

It was Clovis, sounding quite agitated. Lelouch rubbed the bridge between his brows; it was too early in the morning to be dealing with an agitated Clovis. "For the umpteenth time, nothing is going on between Miss Stadtfeld and…"

"No, no, who cares about that? Have you seen the news?"

He turned on the television and found all the major media outlets reporting on the same story. "I presume you're referring to the blackout last night, explosion, possibly the work of terrorists."

"Not possibly, was."

"I see." The prince nodded at Sayako when she set down an egg white and mushroom omelet in front of him. Apparently electricity was restored to the majority of affected sectors just before morning commute hours, avoiding the worst. "And what does a terrorist attack have to do with me?"

"Well…" He noted the sound of splashing water in the background on the other end, and deduced that Clovis had been in the Jacuzzi when he received the news. "I was hoping you could help us catch the rascals responsible."

"No."

The Governor of Area Eleven made a loud, disappointed noise. "Come now, why not?"

"I'm on vacation, remember?"

"Yes, and Nunally's at school. Surely you're not planning on seeing the sights _alone_."

"Well no." Lelouch's nose twitched; he was ticked by how quickly—albeit correctly—Clovis assumed that he had few other friends to hang out with. "But don't you have people who specialize in this sort of thing?"

"We do. But it's not just about catching the culprits: the public's perception of our commitment towards keeping the peace is critical if we're to secure lasting loyalty. We've made good progress the past few years, and when the locals hear you've joined the effort to stamp out resistance, they'll have no doubt Britannia is here to stay."

Lelouch tapped his finger against the table; Clovis had a point. His mission—aside from overseeing the ongoing development of Lancelot, which he found to be in good hands—was simply to be in Area Eleven, to distract the EU and influence the Chinese Federation, discouraging the latter from any thoughts of capitalizing on the current conflict. He had time, but Lelouch did not want to busy himself with a task that was not only outside his usual line of work but really was none of his business. "I think…"

"Good morning, Nunally!" The busty blonde marched through the door and immediately had the princess in a hug, eliciting a light squeal when she began rubbing her cheek against hers. "Ah, this tender firmness, this silken smoothness, nothing gets me going quite like the sensation of young girl's skin."

Lelouch covered the handset and glared at the girl draped around Nunally's shoulders. "Milly, kindly stop harassing my sister."

"I'm fine brother, really."

"Feeling left out, are we?" She smiled slyly; she was as much a morning person as he was not. "My dear Lulu, if you want a hug you need but ask. I always bring enough to share."

"I don't want one, and you're not supposed to call me that anymore."

Lelouch stared when Milly curled up one knee and slipped off one of her brown uniform loafers. "One inch heels; starting today I'm officially taller than you again."

Clovis, who had been put on hold, checked back in. "Still there?"

"Yes, just interrupted by a cheater."

"Um, okay? Look, you won't have to do much. Just go with my people when they're out investigating, give them a pointer or two, maybe throw the press some nice, confidence-building quotes. Easy, right?"

"Yes, but…"

"I mean, what else are you going to do? I suppose you could wait at home while Nunally's at school, unless you plan on attending Ashford Academy as well."

Lelouch could hear Clovis snickering. He looked at Milly as she continued to fondle Nunally and shuddered at the thought of what would happen if he were to attend Ashford Academy, deep within her lair, constantly under her thumb...

_She'll make me her plaything_. "Okay. I'll do it."

"Great! I'll send someone to pick you up at say… Nine? Nine-thirty then. Thanks, I owe you one."

Lelouch hung up. The girls had started breakfast without him and were chatting about the day ahead. Nunally turned towards where he was sitting with a look of excitement. "Brother, Milly is planning an event for the high school and she's going to let me help!"

"That's right. With such a cute addition to the council, the turnout will be record-breaking." The council president stirred her tea and glanced nonchalantly towards the boy sitting next to her. "Of course, we could always use a smart, handsome, kind helping hand…"

Lelouch tucked a napkin around his neck. "I'd love to, but duty calls."

* * *

Kallen was sound asleep at home when her cell phone rang. After several rounds of tossing and turning she sat up groggily. Annoyed by having her dream of having a certain prince at her mercy cut short, she wiped the saliva off her chin, kicked off the sheets and grabbed the phone. "What?"

"It's me, Ougi. There's trouble."

* * *

"… We have reason to believe that terrorists are hiding here in Shinjuku Ghetto. Anyone who comes forth with information leading to their arrest will be rewarded. Anyone withholding information of their whereabouts is aiding and abetting enemies of the state and will be severely punished."

Lelouch and his subordinates watched the major—a man named Milner—leading Clovis' special unit address hundreds of nervous locals, who had been rounded up from their homes and assembled at what used to be an elementary school's track and field. A large group of smartly uniformed soldiers formed a perimeter, corralling the Elevens in the center. The troops were from the Governor's Commissariat of Internal Affairs, an administrative division which contained the regular elements of Area Eleven's law enforcement—traffic police, firefighting, customs and border guards—but was most notorious for its Secret Police Force, whose mission included suppression of native dissent and counter insurgency.

Clovis granted the Secret Police—which also served as his praetorian guard, providing security for the Governor and other government officials—near-exclusive jurisdiction in the ghettos and outlying areas populated mainly by Elevens. This deliberate lack of oversight had predictable results, and gave "the Spiffies" free rein to conduct mass arrests, physical interrogation, even extrajudicial executions. Lelouch knew little specifics, but by most accounts they were experts at their job and brutally efficient.

The major paced deliberately before the assembled Elevens, holding up an olive box labeled with barcode and numerous serial numbers for all to see. "This is a standard Britannian military ration. It was from a shipment hijacked by terrorists. Now, three days ago, our sources informed us that residents here have been spotted with MREs, the same MREs that were destined for His Majesty's loyal soldiers." The major looked around at the lowered heads. "Can anyone here give me an explanation?"

From two blocks away, members of Ougi's group hid on the second floor of an abandoned building. Kallen's heart sank at the sight of all the people herded onto the field; it had been her idea to share food they captured from the Britannian military with people in the ghettos. "We have to do something."

"Do what? There are ten of us and like, eighty of them."

Ougi looked up from his binoculars with a grave expression. "Tamaki is right, let's wait and see before we do anything."

Kallen nodded reluctantly; she had a feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

After the group of civilians whispered amongst themselves for a few minutes, an elderly gentleman wearing glasses stepped forward, his faded gray fedora clutched between wrinkled hands. "Sir, we don't know how this food got here or who brought them. One morning we got up and found many cases left on the curb. That's all."

"That's all?" The major planted himself in front of the man and looked down with a sneer. "You mean it never struck you as odd that rations just magically appeared on your doorsteps?"

The man swallowed. "We thought it might have been food aid…"

"I see, that explains things."

The officer withdrew his pistol and shot the man. He fell to the ground with a groan, clutching his knee. Terrified screams arose from the group of civilians; women wept, children cried, soldiers chuckled.

"Food aid delivered in the middle of the night to a ghetto full of Elevens? You must take me for a fool."

Villetta and Claudio narrowed their eyes; Lelouch and Marika maintained neutral expressions. Two soldiers hauled the hapless man to his feet. Their commander pressed his pistol to his temple before turning to the crowd. "Let me tell you what I think: I think the terrorists decided to share their spoils with the people who sheltered them. I think no one reported the stolen goods because you're all rebel sympathizers and enemies of the state, and if none of you start talking, this man's blood will be on your hands."

There was a lot of chatter all at once—someone heard several cars come and go late at night, another said she caught a glimpse of masked men hanging about the neighborhood. No one had an answer which satisfied Major Milner, whose expression turned from disdain to disgust. "I'm going to count to ten, if I don't have an answer by ten, he dies. One, two…"

Kallen rose to her feet but was restrained by a hand on her shoulder. She looked down with a silent plea at her leader, but Ougi shook his head.

"Three, four…"

Kallen clutched her machine pistol; she could distract the soldiers by opening fire, but that would almost certainly mean death or capture for herself and her comrades, and that wasn't a call she could make. On the other hand, if she did nothing an innocent man would die, possibly more. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she allowed that to happen.

"Five, six…"

She bit her lip. Her thumb slid to the safety, flipping the switch from safe to full auto.

"Seven, eight… your Highness!"

A can flew from amidst the group of civilians and struck Lelouch's thigh, leaving a dusty print. Cries of dismay arose when the soldiers cocked and leveled their guns at the crowd. A small detachment shoved into the group after the fleeing assailant, and after a short game of cat and mouse emerged with a young boy who continued to struggle against his captors with his feet and his teeth. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Little tyke!" The major backhanded the boy across the face. It was a tremendous relief to him that the projectile was a soda can and not a grenade—had the prince been hurt under his watch the Governor would have him skinned. "Hardly need a trial for this one; there's only one sentence for people who attack members of the royal household."

"I've done nothing wrong!" The boy was on the verge of tears but spat back defiantly. "That food was just lying there free for anyone to take. There was juice and candy inside; none of us have even seen candy in weeks."

"A sweet tooth is no excuse for theft." The commander pointed his gun at the assailant's forehead.

"No!" A young woman broke from the crowd before any of the soldiers could stop her and prostrated herself at Lelouch's feet. "Mercy, great prince, mercy! My brother is just a child, he didn't know any better. Please forgive him."

"Oneechan!"

"Get up, you dirty…"

"Don't touch her." The soldiers who rushed forward to grab the girl backed off, exchanging confused looks as the prince studied the girl before him.

"Look at me."

She lifted her face. She was older than him, fairly tall, with mid-length dark blue hair. Her face was a mess with dust and tear streaks, but he could see that beneath the grime she was quite beautiful. "What is your name?"

"Inoue, sir."

"Tell me, Inoue, did you see the people who delivered food to your community?"

"No."

"Would you tell us if you knew where they were?"

"Of course!"

"Why? Don't you hate Britannia?"

"That's…"

"And why shouldn't you? We destroyed your homes, your lives, your country…" Lelouch leaned down until he was face to face with Inoue. Claudio was alarmed by the prince's apparently reckless behavior. He looked towards Villetta, who remained calm because she understood her commander's methods. The prince continued in a quiet voice. "Tell me, where are your parents?"

The young woman's shoulders shook; her nails clawed into the dirt, leaving lines in the gravel. "… It is as you say, your highness, but I promised my mother and father that I would look after my little brother. He's all I have left, and he matters more to me than any wish for revenge."

She wiped at her tears with her sleeve and looked straight into Lelouch's eyes. He saw in her face anger, grief, determination and desperation. The prince was reminded of a boy who after his mother's murder swallowed his anger so he and her sister could survive. He wondered what he might have become had he also lost Nunally—or if Cornelia not pulled him back from the edge of the abyss—and what would become of this young woman if she lost her brother.

Lelouch straightened his back and turned to the nervous major. "The terrorists are not here."

"But Sire!"

"I'm not questioning your methods, Major, but if I were them, I too would deliver stolen supplies to unsuspecting locals in the hopes that Britannian soldiers would come along and antagonize the Eleven population—buying good will and boosting my ranks with willing volunteers at the same time."

The major was flummoxed; he had not considered that possibility, and the thought of playing into the hands of partisans warred against his belief that Elevens deserved no benefit of doubt. "What about the boy? He attacked you, my lord. The law demands he be held accountable for his crime."

He turned to his young attacker, whose bravado had been doused by his sister's tearful plea on his behalf; now he was simply a frightened child. Both Britannians and Elevens watched with bated breath as the Black Prince picked up the offending projectile. Standing before his assailant, he underhanded it and watched the dusty soda can bounce off the boy's leg.

"Eye for an eye; the law has been satisfied. Release him."

The major stared in disbelief as the boy was reunited with his sister. The tension on the field dissipated as the soldiers lowered their weapons. The Elevens began to relax for the first time that morning and talked amongst themselves in hushed tones about the sudden turn of events, stealing awe-filled glances at the prince. Her brother safe in her arms, Inoue looked up at Lelouch with fresh tears on her face. "Thank you."

He nodded in reply, and gave orders to the dismayed commander to have the wounded man treated and radio for a medevac. Twenty minutes later the convoy left the ghettos. The civilians returned home and the resistance fighters exchanged handshakes and backslaps. "We have got to be more careful about giving out stuff in the future."

"Damn murdering spiffies. We'll get them next time."

"That prince wasn't such a bad nut."

"Guess they're not all bloodthirsty killers."

Kallen looked towards the direction in which the convoy departed, her sense of relief mired by the fact that it was Lelouch's intervention—not anything she and her comrades did—that saved the boy's life.

* * *

Claudio smiled at his commander, the amazing youth he had heard so many stories about and whom he was slowly getting to know. "That was very generous of you, Sir, the way you handled things."

"Generosity has nothing to do with it." Lelouch looked out at the passing scenery; even through heavily tinted windows the Concession's pristine skyline glittered like diamonds under the spotlight, contrastingly starkly with the sad remains of the metropolis over which it was built.

"Even so, I'm sure the residents of the ghetto are grateful." Marika sat opposite from the two men, "Especially the sister. I'm surprised she didn't try to kiss you."

Lelouch chuckled at Marika's suggestive look. Villetta shook her head. "If his highness had let them shoot that boy, there would be a hundred more terrorists to deal with in the future."

"Which is not to say that cruelty doesn't have its place, but one must employ it tactfully lest the effort backfire." Lelouch crossed his leg and rested his elbow on the center armrest, continuing thoughtfully. "People don't become terrorists for no reason. It happens when their hatred for us outweighs their fear of losing what they have—her brother was all that girl had left, and I didn't want to see her become a terrorist."

"Why not?"

"Because it would be tragic for someone young and beautiful to throw away their future like that."

* * *

"Achoo!"

"Bless you!" Shirley looked up from her notes. "You sure you're over your cold? Maybe you should go home, Nina and I have a pretty good handle on things."

"I'm fine." Kallen rubbed her nose. She didn't have a cold; that was merely her excuse for not coming to school that day, but the emergency at Shinjuku meant she had to come up with a plausible explanation to leave the house. School was always the best cover, especially since her parents never checked if their daughter actually attended so long as she kept up her grades, which she did in spades.

"Don't push yourself too hard." Capping her pen, Shirley gathered her notebooks and printouts into her bag. "I'm heading to the pool. If Milly comes back let her know I finished what she asked."

After she left Kallen was left with Nina, who had been busy in front of her computer, the sound of her fingers on the keyboard a constant flurry in an otherwise quiet room.

"What do you have against Prince Lelouch?"

Kallen looked up and was surprised to find Nina giving her an accusatory look. "I don't have anything against him."

"Then why did you throw wine at him at the ball?"

"That was…" She heard from Shirley how Lelouch had rescued them from muggers and how grateful Nina was. "It was my fault; I was not thinking straight. I had too much to drink. I've already apologized and told him how sorry I was."

"Really, and when did this happen?"

The two girls turned and found Lelouch standing in the doorway. Nina's shot to her feet, wondering if he overheard any of their conversation. "Your highness, what brings you here?"

"Lelouch, remember?" The prince smiled gently, causing the poor girl's blush to deepen. "I'm looking for my sister. Do you know where she is?"

"Milly said she was going to introduce her to the student clubs. If you like, I could…"

"I'll show you." Kallen gathered her things. "We also need to talk."

Before Nina could protest, Kallen left with the prince and shut the door behind her.

Lelouch followed her with his hands in his pockets, the sound of school and students in recess echoing around him in the elevated hallway. "If there's a confession at the end of this, I must say I like this much better than your first attempt."

Kallen spun around, her eyes daggers. "Are you stupid, or do you really think that every girl you come across falls madly in love with you?"

"Well, I wouldn't say _every_ girl. Some lose interest as soon as they've gotten me out of my clothes."

Her face reddened at the memory. "That's because they've seen you for what you are, all style and no substance."

"Fair enough. So what is it you wanted to talk about?" She thought she made a good comeback and was caught off guard by his non-reaction. "I heard something about how sorry you are?"

He smiled as Kallen seethed, figurative steam rising from the top of her head as her hairs began to bristle: From the moment she met him, Lelouch Vi Britannia embodied all the reasons why she loathed the Empire. Every interaction they shared confirmed her belief that he was scum—vain, arrogant, ruthless, a man who treated her countrymen like third class citizens. His arrival in Japan had rekindled her revolutionary zeal: His was the face she pictured over her bulls eyes during target practice, the victim in her wish-fulfillment dreams, the object of her hatred. Which is why she found it unsettling that—after what she witnessed that morning—she found it difficult to hate him.

"I'm sorry for what happened at the ball. Even though I was under the influence and even though you were kind of a jerk, I should not have done what I did."

Lelouch nodded. "I apologize as well; I should have been more sensitive. Not everyone agrees with Britannia's colonial policies."

"Especially if one has witnessed the destruction first hand." Kallen saw that the prince was sincere, and the task of mustering hatred towards him became an even greater struggle. "I think I may have misjudged you."

"That makes two of us."

"Yoo-hoo! Hello there, you two."

Kallen saw Milly coming down the hallway with Rivalz behind Nunally in her wheelchair. "Well, there's your sister. If you'll excuse me I'm going to head home."

He followed her with his eyes as she walked away. Milly followed his gaze over his shoulder and grinned. "Watch out, if the two you keep this up people will think you're dating."

"Really?" Nunally looked up. "Are you dating Kallen, brother?"

"No, and don't believe everything Milly says."

"What's she doing at school? I thought she called in sick." Rivalz craned his neck around the two just as said girl disappeared around the corner before patting the prince on the back. "I've got to hand it to you though; I've never seen her get so worked up over a guy before. You must really…"

"Hold on, what did you say?"

"Um, I've never seen Kallen get her knickers in such a twist?"

"No, before that." Lelouch turned towards Rivalz, who was taken aback by the serious expression on his face. "You said she called in sick."

"Yeah, she texted us last night around nine. Nothing unusual; she's got a weak constitution and gets under the weather easily, you might say it's one of her charm points."

"She usually takes a few days off, but I'm glad she's up and about." Milly nudged her childhood friend in the ribs. "Might it be the curative powers of love? She and I have been talking, you know. I think she's interested in you."

"Who isn't?" But rather than feeling flattered, the gears in Lelouch's mind began cranking at full steam: The aftermath of the welcome ball had been a nightmare; at all hours during the day Clovis would call and gloat over his poor choice in companionship. Villetta—politely and with much deference—demanded he let her know next time he wished to sneak away for quality time. An apologetic Claudio slipped him a box of rubbers, and despite his threats Lelouch could not get the young captain to give up who put him up to it. He wanted to forget the entire episode so much he barely gave it any thought since.

But something didn't sit quite right and the doubts he had returned. At the time, he knew nothing of the girl named Kallen Stadtfeld. She was the daughter of an influential Britannian nobleman, which for his purposes was all he needed and cared to know. He quickly realized however that she was an unusual case, with an odd temperament and unconventional sympathies, and still he knew next to nothing about her…

Except that she had called in sick last night, a few hours before the explosion at the power grid. She was at school when she wasn't supposed to be. She apologized and told him she misjudged him weeks after she embarrassed him in public, but he could not recall anything he did to change her impression of him—an arrogant aristocrat who thought that becoming a part of the Empire was the best thing to happen to the Japanese since they discovered rice. There was the matter at Shinjuku ghetto, but there was no way she could know that, unless…

_Unless she was there_

A few minutes later, Lelouch slipped away from his friends and punched a speed dial button on his phone.

"This is General Lelouch Vi Britannia. I need to speak to the director."

* * *

After Kallen left with Lelouch, Nina had the clubroom to herself. She sat at the end of the long meeting table, fingertips resting on the keyboard of her computer. Her mind was filled with envy for the redhead who had just walked out with the prince—how Kallen remained on friendly terms with him despite the travesty she committed was no mystery. She was gorgeous, after all; beautiful people were always forgiven. Nina was sure that if she had poured wine over the prince's head he would never forgive her. Not when she was plain, ugly, dirty…

She browsed through the bookmarks on her laptop's web browser, all filled with the prince's images. She smiled; how lucky she was, to be able to see him in the flesh almost every day when millions had to satisfy themselves with video clips and photos. How lucky she was to be able to talk to him now and then, to hear his gentle voice, her name on his perfect lips.

Her chest warmed from remembering the way he smiled at her. He asked her to call him by name; she was not just anyone, she was special.

"Lelouch…"

* * *

"Surveillance, Sir?"

Suzaku stood at attention before Lelouch, who was sitting behind Lloyd's desk. Sensing a chance to flatter the man holding his project's purse strings, Lloyd offered his own office after receiving the prince's call asking for Corporal Kururugi and a secure place to meet, forgetting that his office resembled an overflowing waste basket. Thanks to a heroic effort by Cecil and several unfortunate lab assistants, the head scientist's office was cleaned and tidied up in less than an hour.

Lelouch placed a folder marked with Ashford Academy letterhead on the desk. "Kallen Stadtfeld. I suspect she's associated with the Japanese resistance. Her father is a nobleman, so I want to be sure before I decide what to do next. Follow her during the next few days and report back to me as soon as you spot any suspicious activity."

"What should I look for?"

"Anything unusual for a daughter of an aristocrat; contact with Elevens, for instance."

"I understand." Suzaku flipped through the pages, which included two passport photos and other school records; she seemed to him like a most improbable candidate for a terrorist.

Lelouch studied the young pilot before him. "You understand why I asked you for this mission?"

"Yes sir, I can blend in with the locals and go places where a Britannian might seem out of place."

Lelouch nodded; he liked how the young soldier took a realistic view about his qualities. "That's part of it. I also need someone I can trust: Despite your background and who your father was, you've been selected by Lord Asplund to be part of Britannia's most important secret weapons program. I can only assume that in addition to talent and skill you possess unquestionable loyalty."

Suzaku scratched his chin sheepishly, recalling how he landed in Lancelot's pilot seat. "Well, 'selected' is not the word I'd…"

"Excuse me, Corporal?"

"Nothing, Sir."

"Very well." Lelouch stood up. "It may well be just a mistaken hunch, but I'll not risk it. Do this for me, Corporal Kururugi, and I'll see to it that you're well rewarded."

"Yes Sir."

The prince returned the corporal's salute as he headed for the door. "By the way, how is the Lancelot coming along?"

"Very well, sir. Lord Asplund bade me inform you that he'll be inviting you for more comprehensive demonstrations in the near future once a suitable location has been found."

"Tell the director that depending on how your investigation goes, I have places in mind where he can show me what his KMF can do."

* * *

As an Honorary Britannian soldier in Area Eleven's Territorial Army, Suzaku was used to menial tasks where the most important skill was an ability to endure boredom. He found himself put to the test the next few days, trailing Kallen stealthily when she left home for school in the morning and went home in the afternoon. His mission was made easier by the fact that Kallen took public transportation, which allowed him to follow her on foot. Dressed in jeans, sunglasses and an old jacket, he was paid scant attention as he moved through the crowds inside the Concession, only standing out when he approached Ashford Academy or the exclusive neighborhood in which Stadtfeld Mansion was located. It was his good fortune then that the Prince's orders did not entail spying on the girl while she was home or at school, where the likelihood of her meeting with terrorist elements was lowest; getting arrested for stalking a Britannian noble was not on Suzaku's to do list.

He kept a detailed log of Kallen's whereabouts. Between home and school, she spent time with friends at malls and coffee shops and the cinema, everything a normal girl did. This pattern repeated itself for five days. On the sixth day, when Suzaku—tired from lack of sleep and yelled at by Lloyd for nodding off during a test run and causing paint scratches to Lancelot—considered throwing in the towel, something happened to break the monotony.

Early Sunday morning, three hours before when she usually left for school, Kallen slipped out from her front door donning a cap and denim jacket. Gulping down his can of coffee, Suzaku hurried after her, careful to keep a distance on the quiet streets. He noticed that she appeared more alert, checking over her shoulders and stopping now and then as if to listen for followers. He smiled ironically; the lessons he received in silent footing as a boy served him well, though his instructor would no doubt disapprove of the use to which he put them now.

He followed her to the closest monorail stop, several blocks from where she lived. From there they traveled to Grand Central Station, formerly Tokyo Station. The busiest station in Area Eleven in trains and passengers per day, Grand Central was bustling with commuters even at the early hour. He gaped when he overheard her purchase at the platform vendor. "One Hokkaido bento, one Tokyo bento, oolong tea, two boxes of sakura mochi and two boxes of combination daifuku."

"That will be sixty-nine pounds twenty-five pence."

Following her from behind his sunglasses, he watched which train she boarded before getting in line at the vendor, where an old lady greeted him with a sunny grin. "What can I get you, boy?"

"Coffee milk, red bean bread, and a copy of Wall Street Today."

"That'll be Five fifty."

Picking up his purchase, he followed Kallen onto the train bound west, taking a seat seven rows to the back and shielding himself behind the voluminous newspaper.

She alighted two hours later, in the prefectural capital of Yamanashi. Suzaku wondered at her purpose in coming; the mochi implied she was visiting someone, though from the way she polished off the two large bento boxes he couldn't rule out the possibility that those were for dessert. Unlike Tokyo, which received much of the Empire's attention in post-war reconstruction, Yamanashi was neglected due to its low importance as a symbolic and economic center. The upshot of course was that it received relatively little damage during the invasion, and thanks to its rich natural environs Yamanashi attracted Area Eleven's wealthy to purchase orchards and vineyards as convenient retreats from the heavily urban Tokyo Concession.

Suzaku did not follow when Kallen took off on a bus; he began to feel that he was wasting his time. She most likely came to the resort town to stay the weekend at a friend's, as there were no known or suspected terrorists active in the prefecture. Walking wearily to the bus stop, he checked the route map for the bus she just boarded and started when he saw its destination.

"Kofu Penitentiary…"

He got on the phone; he would need additional clearance for the part that came next.

* * *

Inside the study on the second floor, Lelouch went over the records of the inmate who Kallen had visited on numerous occasions. When Suzaku phoned him to request assistance in obtaining the cooperation of the prison warden, he thought he found at last the missing link which would confirm his theory that Kallen Stadtfeld was connected to elements of the Japanese resistance. Instead, what the corporal's investigation turned up satisfied his query in an entirely unexpected way.

"Kozuki Miwako, age 37. Former nationality: Japanese. Former occupation: Live in maid at the Stadtfeld residence. Arrested last year for illegal possession of R-ethyl-4- Acetorphine, a Schedule II controlled substance colloquially referred to as Refrain. Sentenced to 15 years imprisonment and rehabilitation…" Lelouch noted how gentle and sad the woman's eyes were from the photos in the profile. He continued reading.

"Known family: Parents, both deceased. Husband, none. Son, Naoto, suspected member and leader of terrorist cell, committed suicide after arrest. Daughter, XXXXXXXXXXXXXX, birth date 3/29/2000…"

Lelouch sneered; suicide in custody was often employed as a euphemism for death resulting from overzealous interrogation, particularly when it came to suspected terrorists. On purpose or by human error, the record failed to strike the birthday of the daughter along with the name, but it didn't require a genius to connect the dots. Putting their profiles side by side, Lelouch could observe the subtle resemblance between Miwako and Kallen in spite of the latter's obvious Caucasian features. It would be a simple matter to have their DNA samples compared in order to confirm parentage, but that was unnecessary, for Lelouch had been making his own inquiries during the past week; retired and current family servants and confidants of Lady Stadtfeld:

He learned of how Lord Stadtfelt, Kallen's father, met Miwako while studying in Kyoto, how the two continued their relationship even after Lord Stadtfeld's family found out, finally ending when he was threatened with disownment unless he married another, forcing him to leave her and their two children. He learned how Miwako accepted the responsibility of raising two children on her own, refusing all his attempts at providing financial support in order to protect him from scandal. After the invasion, when it became impossible for a single Japanese mother to raise two children—one of whom looked like a Britannian—it was arranged for Kallen to become officially recognized as her father's daughter, an arrangement made possible only because Lord Stadtfeld refused to conceive an heir with the woman he was commanded to wed, dooming the family line to extinction unless Kallen was named heir.

The few in the know were split in their opinion on the outcome of the Stadtfeld family drama. Some considered it poetic justice, vengeance visited upon century old prejudices through an heir who carried and would pass on Eleven blood. Others—Lady Stadtfeld among them—considered it a disgrace and travesty, but kept silent for fear of the open ridicule (even censure from the Court) it would invite should the secret be revealed.

Lelouch was among the former: He saw parallels between being a half-blood in Area Eleven and being a commoner in royal court. He took pity on the mother, who found employ as a maid in the Stadtfeld household but on the condition that she cease associating with her daughter. He simmered with rage from hearing about the humiliation and persecution she suffered at the hands of caustic coworkers and a cruel matron who blamed her for her loveless marriage. He could understand how someone who lost as much as she did—left by the man she loved, her son dead and her daughter become a stranger—would turn to Refrain in order to live in the past.

And he could understand why someone like Kozuki Kallen would feel enmity towards him—the same way he once felt towards nobles and Britannian society—even if she wasn't a terrorist.

* * *

"My dear Lelouch, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"

Lelouch waited until the secretary closed the door to Clovis' office, oval shaped and furnished in the French Empire Style. The theme colors were blue, white and gold, with three large east-facing windows behind the Governor's desk, which was built from the timbers of the Britannian man-of-war, HMS _Scipio_, part of the exodus fleet which carried the Duke of Britannia and his followers to America after the British Isles were lost to French invasion and uprising. Clovis paid particular attention to this office when he was designing the Governor's Palace, and considered it of his best mid-Neoclassical works, often opening the office to visitors and school tours.

"I need your assistance in a delicate matter." Lelouch reclined comfortably in his seat, hands folded in his lap, "A matter which involves a woman."

"Then you have come to the right person."

Lelouch slid Kozuki Miwako's file across the table to his brother, who leaned forward to receive it, eyes sparkling with anticipation. He followed the change in Clovis' expression closely. "What do you think?"

"Hmmm. A challenge methinks." He studied the file with measured curiosity, knotting and raising his brows intermittently. "Not so much that she's in jail—at least you'll know where to find her—but the fact that she's more than twice your age. Not impossible to court, but a challenge."

Lelouch chuckled. "What I would like is for you to pardon this woman. Her story is long and complicated, but suffice to say that her incarceration—though the correct result under our judicial system—is an injustice and tragedy which you are in the unique position to remedy."

"You are right that it is within my power to pardon an inmate." Clovis turned a page as he glanced towards his younger brother. "But Refrain is a cancer to our society, and both dealing and possession are serious crimes. I need to know why you're appealing on behalf of this junky before I sign off on anything."

"You recall the incident I had with Miss Stadtfeld at my welcome ball?"

"Who could forget? I wish I had my camera with me."

"I'm trying to get back in her good graces. The lady whose file you have before you was her nursemaid, who raised and cared for her since she was a toddler. You can imagine how attached Miss Stadtfeld is to Mrs. Kozuki and how difficult it is for her, a proper young lady, to visit her in a forlorn prison in the countryside."

"I can indeed." Clovis appeared to ponder the matter. "What I can't imagine is your continued affection for Miss Stadtfeld, pretty thing though she is, after her boorish behavior towards you."

"Let's just say I have a weakness for passionate redheads." Lelouch raised his teacup to his lips. "And they have a weakness for me, even if they don't realize it yet."

"By Jove, war did make a man out of you! Congratulations, you've graduated from slinging hot lead to the finer art of doing battle with satin and roses." His laughter subsided. Clovis brought his hands together on the table. "Unfortunately, an outright pardon for your friend will be difficult, as my hands are tied."

This was not the answer he was expecting nor hoping for. "Do tell."

"A pardon has to be made public; there's no getting around that. Tongues will wag if I release a convicted Eleven without good reason. The press will snoop. In the worst case Pendragon will catch word and I shall have to submit a report explaining myself."

Lelouch frowned; things would become troublesome indeed if his Father found out. "So there's nothing we can do."

"Now wait! Have a little faith in big brother for once." He leaned back in his chair, hands linked behind his golden head. "While an _outright _pardon is out of the question, what I can do is have Mrs. Kozuki transferred from that dungeon to some place more comfortable and closer to home. A private run rehab center perhaps; some are just like resorts these days. She'll be under supervision of course, and the fee…"

"Money is no object."

"I never said it was. Anyways, she'll still be in custody, but she'll enjoy all the creature comforts a patient could ask for. Miss Stadtfeld will be free to visit when she pleases, and when her parole hearing comes up in a few years I'll quietly weigh in on the panel. That way I won't have to confess to the media camping out in front of my palace that everything I did I did for my little brother, defender of the Elevens and damsels in distress."

"I couldn't ask for more." Clearly Major Milner had been complaining to his brother, but Lelouch didn't care. He rose from his seat. "Thanks, Clovis."

"You're welcome. It's not every day I get to do something even the great prince can't handle. Just remember, you're supposed to help me catch the criminals, not set them free."

"Naturally."

Lelouch took his leave, but was stopped by Clovis when he reached the door. "Just one more thing."

He turned around. Clovis tapped his finger against his desk, feather quill in hand. "Is this girl worth all the trouble?"

"I hope so."

* * *

"Lelouch Vi Britannia!"

The prince was not surprised when he heard his name being yelled—he had been expecting a visit from the redhead ever since Clovis informed him that his special request had been fulfilled. He turned in his chair so its back was to the door, continuing his phone conversation. "I agree; if there's justice in this world, he'll hang for his crimes…"

The door to his study flew open and he heard a pair of footsteps stomp in over Sayoko's protests. He was spun around in his seat and found himself face to face to Kallen, who was leaning across the desk with a livid expression.

"I'll have to call you back, Darlton. Yes, see you soon."

He calmly replaced the handset on the phone. Sayoko bowed in apology. "I'm very sorry sir. I tried to stop her."

"It's alright. You may go."

The maid bowed again before taking her leave. When they were alone Lelouch directed his attention back to his visitor. "What can I do for you?"

Kallen slammed her hand against the table, juggling the pen set. "You know exactly why I'm here."

"If this is about Kozuki Miwako, there's no need to thank me."

"Thank you? Are you mad?" She was angry and amazed by the prince's audacity. "Who gave you the right?"

"Me." He smiled magnanimously and picked up a nail file. "Mrs. Kozuki's story happened to come to my attention. My sympathy was aroused; as it was within my power to improve her situation, I did."

The way he explained his generosity made her want to punch his teeth out. "So you intervene in people's lives just because you can? I should've expected nothing less from a Britannian prince."

"Why are you angry when nothing but good has come from this?" Lelouch blew on his pinky before going to work on his ring finger. "Or are you upset because I'm not the spawn of Satan you imagined me to be?"

Kallen was speechless; he was stripping away every reason for her to hate him. If the idea wasn't totally absurd, she would have thought for sure that he was doing it just to spite her. She could not deny that she felt immensely indebted to him, but his general behavior—his gloating, his grin, his I'm-a-Britannian-prince-so -bite-me attitude—created a mental block that prevented her from expressing any sign of gratitude.

In fact, she had been thinking of how to thank him on her way to the clubhouse, but in the agonizing process of doing so her emotions underwent a torturous transformation from surprised to confused to awkward to angry, and before she knew it she was kicking down his door and demanding answers for his act of kindness. Now that her anger was beginning to subside, the rashness of her un-thought-out actions began to fully dawn on her, causing a slow burn to creep up from her neck. "I… um… Why did you do it?"

"For you of course." Overlooking the deepened shade of color in her face, Lelouch rose from his seat and walked around the desk, causing Kallen to take a step back. "We have a lot in common, you and I: Born into hostile environments, surrounded by people who despise us, distant fathers, nurturing mothers… I know what it's like to lose the person who matters to you most."

"But your mother was a hero, a strong, admired queen." Kallen's held her arm, her eyes lowering to the carpet. "My mother is a pitiful woman; she sold her dignity to be with the man who betrayed her, then turned to drugs when she couldn't take it anymore."

"My mother is dead." His voice became quiet. "You have yours, and ought to cherish every moment you have with her. You know she does; it's the only reason why she followed you."

He stood looking out the window so that only his profile was visible to her, but even though his body language betrayed nothing, Kallen picked up volumes of unspoken emotion from his words and felt herself grieving on his behalf. She reached out and nearly touched his shoulder but drew back at the last moment, afraid of how he would react, and how touching him—making a connection and understanding this boy who she thought was her sworn enemy—might affect her. "… Thank you."

"You're welcome."

_To be Continued._

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Hello everyone. It's been five weeks because I'm working at a firm in Taiwan, plus this turned out much longer than I anticipated. Though hot and humid to the point of being sticky the change in environment has been good for my writing: Different food, scenery, people and pace of life.

Some notes about this chapter: Milner is not an original character, just a name I came up with for the leader of Clovis' elite guards who Lelouch commands to die at the end of episode one. The name "Governor's Commissariat of Internal Affairs" was inspired by NKVD, the Soviet secret police. Several spots of irony: Lelouch asking Clovis why he thinks a terrorist act would have anything to do with him, Lelouch commenting on Suzaku's loyalty, etc. Regarding Inoue: A source said she was an original member of Naoto's group, but since her role in canon was so tiny and inconsequential I decided to use her differently. Also, I imagine the Pound Sterling in the world of CG to be worth equal to or slightly more than the current US dollar. The intro was written last of all because I was out of ideas for what genre/style to use.

The next chapter's title will be "Zero." Thank you all for reading, until next time.


	26. Zero

**Chapter 26: Zero**

"_Monday__, __April 12__, __2017_

_**Kirkham Acquitted of Murder in Fuji Massacre**_

_By __Diethard Reid, special to Wall Street Today_

_FORT ST GERMANS, TOKYO CONCESSION—Lieutenant Leonard J. Kirkham was acquitted today of Human Trafficking and Murder charges for his role in the death of civilians during the Invasion of Japan. _

_He was convicted on the lesser charges of Absence without Leave and Behavior Unbecoming an Officer and Gentleman. Kirkham was sentenced to dismissal from the army and four and half years house arrest, reduced to two years after subtracting 30 months he spent in hospital recovering from injuries received during his arrest. _

_The jury __panel __of __nine__ military__ officers deliberated __three hours __before reaching a verdict__: Kirkham was acquitted of trafficking 38 Japanese children, of premeditated murder in the killing of the same, and of premeditated murder in the killing of 87 Japanese civilians at a refugee camp. A two-thirds majority is required for conviction. _

_When the verdict was read, a mixed reaction of outrage and applause erupted in the courtroom before the presiding judge restored order. Kirkham saluted the court and appeared cheerful as he waved at supporters. He went outside and told reporters that despite disappointment over his dismissal, he accepted the verdict and maintained his complete faith in the military justice system._

_Kirkham was represented by a team of high-profile civilian attorneys led by New York criminal defense lawyer Alan D. Goldstein. Industry experts estimate his defense to have cost his father, the Duke of Morley, between 5 to 10 million pounds sterling. __The __29__-year-old was denounced in the __prosecution's __summation as a__ rogue__ officer who __left "an indelible stain on the honor and integrity" of the Britannian military__, and __whose "bloody hands could not be cleansed by any amount of clever rhetoric."_

_Kirkham__ was __originally __charged with the murder of __Japanese refugees he encountered while leading his platoon on the outskirts of Fuji City in Shizuoka Prefecture in August, 2010__. He was charged also with __removing minors from the site and transporting them to a trafficker's ship. When intercepted by pursuing forces, Kirham allegedly ordered the crew to dump the children overboard. _

_The jury of __nine__ officers had to consider whether __Lieutenant__ Kirkham ordered the killings, or had been aware that his men were "improperly killing noncombatants" and had declined to exercise his command responsibility by ordering a halt to the killings; whether he was guilty of human trafficking by transporting people against their will with profit motive, and whether he was guilty of ordering the drowning of the children, an incident described by his counsel, Fred Shupack, as "a unintended, tragic accident." _

_In his final argument, __Major__ Frederick__ G. __Maxim, serving as prosecutor in chief,__ ridiculed the defense's contention that __Lieutenant__ Kirkham__ was an unwitting bystander misled by slavers into believing that he and his men were escorting war orphans to a safe location__.__Colonel __Bledsoe__, __the presiding judge, cast doubts on the testimony of some of the prosecution's key witnesses __in his instructions to the jury. He referred to __Yabuki Yoshito, father to two of the victims,__ as a "frequent user of __Refrain__, as __many as four doses a day__"__ and as such the accuracy of his memory of events from seven years ago could be called into question. _

_In the wake of international uproar after the Fuji killings came to light, the Asian crew of the smuggling ship was extradited to the Chinese Federation, where five were executed and three given lengthy sentences of re-education through hard labor. Most members of Kirkham's platoon had left the army by the time trial proceedings began, and so were unable to be prosecuted. Out of 14__ officers and enlisted men originally charged, __seven__ cases were dismissed and there were four acquittals before the __Kirkham__ verdict._

_The __Ministry of War__ announced yesterday__ that no __appeal by the prosecution was pending__ and__ that the __Fuji__ investigation was closed.__"_

_

* * *

_

Andreas Darlton sat hunched over, hands clenched, elbows resting on his knees. His face was a stone mask. His ears—filled with the roar of blood—were deaf to the commotion in the packed courtroom. He looked like a man in prayer but for his steely eyes, which followed the defendant as he strolled down the aisle, arms raised in victory, his pearly white smile lit up by continuous camera flashes.

For a split second their eyes met. The general saw recognition on the lieutenant's face, followed by the upward curve at the corner of his perfect, surgically repaired lips. Darlton knew they were repaired because he was the one who necessitated surgery in the first place, more than six years ago. Now the scoundrel was as good as new, off with a slap on the wrist, enjoying the last laugh—laughing at the world, laughing at the system, laughing at his victims, laughing at him.

Claudio glared at the gloating lieutenant as he left the courtroom surrounded by his escort of lawyers and military police. He placed a hand on his father's shoulder. "Come on, dad. Let's go."

* * *

_Brigadier General Andreas Darlton was pleased: After just two weeks into the invasion, organized resistance was collapsing and Japanese troops were surrendering in mass. Leaflets warning people to shelter in the countryside were scattered over major cities weeks prior to the landing and achieved their intended effect. Civilian casualties trended towards the low end of estimates despite the destruction wrought upon Tokyo, the primary objective and home to the fiercest fighting. Advancing according to plan, Britannian forces shifted gears from war fighting to peace keeping, securing infrastructure and facilitating the distribution of aid supplies and services. _

_Everything proceeded perfectly until he received the call on Y-Day+13, a cloudless, scorching hot day._

_He drove immediately to the site. A sergeant led him to a camp in the forest. Thick vegetation shielded family tents from the oppressive summer heat. Half-finished breakfasts sat on picnic tables, pots and kettles simmered over portable gas stoves, freshly done laundry was strung out on clotheslines, a choir of cicadas sang, a radio played a bubble pop song._

"_Down by the river, sir."_

_They followed a trail to a cool bubbling stream. The water ran clearly until it reached the people, lying face down in shallow water, each with a hole in the back of their heads. Their bodies stretched along the crimson shore, coloring the water downstream. His troops grimly went about taking photos, collecting evidence, and filling body bags, radioing for more when stocks ran low. A chaplain said prayers for the departed. A sergeant broke down and wept. _

_Darlton had seen the work of death squads before: from his experience, a surprise attack—by which the assailants seek to terrorize and control their victims—usually preceded the rounding up and mass execution. Here there was no sign of violence or looting at the camp. The people had been ordered to leave and obeyed, which meant the attackers likely presented themselves as figures of authority, which, given the Japanese army's state of disintegration, meant those who committed the atrocity were Britannian. Something else however was amiss…_

"_Where are the children?" _

_

* * *

_

_Using imagery from a high altitude UAV, Darlton tracked the trucks from the campsite to a fishing port on the coast. He then exceeded his pay grade by asking a nearby marine assault carrier to sweep the area with its complement of aircraft before boarding a helicopter himself. Less than half an hour later, a plane from the carrier spotted a costal barge 70 miles southwest of the port. When hailed on radio, the ship identified itself as an Indonesian registered vessel bound for Kagoshima with a cargo of skipjack tuna. With the ship's coordinates and heading, Darlton's helicopter quickly closed the distance while he radioed for reinforcements. Soon the barge came into view. _

"_Luzon Maru, Luzon Maru. This is General Darlton of the Britannian Army. You are hereby ordered to cut your engines and wait for boarding and inspection. I repeat: cut engines and await inspection."_

_From a low altitude Darlton could make out sailors and Britannian soldiers on board. A minute went by and the engines of the Luzon Maru continued to churn. He repeated his message; hearing no reply, he tapped the helicopter's door gunner on the shoulder, who fired a stream of warning shots at the barge's waterline. The ship stopped its engines. _

_As he and his men prepared to fast rope down, he saw the ship's crane begin to move. A sick sense of dread gripped his bowels; he watched in horror as the crane picked up one of the containers and rotated until it was hanging over the water. _

"_God, no…"_

_The crane released and the container splashed into the water._

_

* * *

_

"I can't believe they let him off so easily." Cecile's brows furrowed as she followed the news the next day on TV.

Lloyd stretched back in his chair, feet crossed atop of the table. He snapped off a bite from his melon-flavored Pocky. "What's not to believe? His father is a duke. He can afford the best result the system has to offer."

"But everyone knows he's guilty!"

"Doesn't mean people think he deserves to hang. The law is gray, especially in a case like this." The scientist twirled his snack like a pen and continued blithely. "Fog of war, obscured memories, an Eleven's word against a Britannian noble. All considered, I think this was the most politically correct outcome. Right, Suzaku?"

The corporal—his white pilot suit unzipped to the waist—looked up from the neighboring table. "Um, I guess."

"What a noncommittal answer. Come now, as an Honorary Brit serving in the army, you must have an opinion on this matter. Share it with us."

"Could you be any less sensitive?" Cecile turned to the young pilot whose lunch sat untouched. "Don't mind Lloyd. His curiosity makes him stupid sometimes."

"Thanks, ma'am." Suzaku pushed the peas around his tray with his fork. "Part of me is angry, as a Japanese and a soldier. But life's not fair; the world isn't perfect, and if you want to change the system you need to have power first."

"I see, but there's a hole in your way of thinking."

"Where?"

"Who said you had to work inside the system, with all its hierarchies and rules?" Lloyd nibbled on his snack with a mischievous grin. "If you like, I can find Kirkham's address in two seconds, you can go over there in the Lancelot and presto, justice is oww!"

"Stop spouting nonsense." Lloyd cradled his hand where Cecile rapped his knuckles with her binder. The female officer gave him a reprimanding glare before turning back to the corporal. "It's true that it takes a lot of effort to effect change, but if you work hard I'm sure one day you'll reach a place where you can make a difference and do a lot of good. We're rooting for you, Suzaku."

"I'll give it my best shot, ma'am."

The scientist rubbed his hand in a sulk. "Yeah right. Hard work, friendship, victory? That only works in Japanese comics; see how well it's done for them in the real world. Success in life is about kowtowing to superiors and stabbing friends in the back and using them as footstools to get a leg up and…"

"What was that, Lloyd Carmine Asplund?"

"Nothing, I'll shut up now." He shrank in his chair to appear as small as possible. Suzaku smiled.

* * *

"_Animal!" _

_Holding Kirkham up by the collar, Darlton delivered another liver shot into the ringleader's ribcage. His troops stood and watched coolly as their commander pummeled the lieutenant. The boarding party met no resistance as it took control of the ship. At first Kirkham and his soldiers professed ignorance; he then demanded a lawyer when a frigate arrived with rig and divers to raise the container. They found the doors chained shut and cut it by blowtorch. Inside were the rigid remains of almost 40 boys and girls from kindergarten to high school, crammed into a 20 feet shipping container. Many were missing fingernails. When Darlton saw the red scratch marks that marred the interior of the steel container, something inside him snapped._

"_Murderer!"The general planted what was left of the lieutenant's face into his knee and felt something crunch. "Coward!" _

_The ship's crew confessed readily: Kirkham contacted their organization a week ago, claiming he could gather and deliver a shipment of Japanese orphans to help meet the mainland's insatiable demand for fresh young bodies: sex workers and organ providers. When their ship was stopped by the helicopter the lieutenant turned on them, threatening to kill them unless they "disposed of the evidence."_

_Darlton dragged Kirkham by the hair across the deck to where the bodies were laid out. He dunked his head in seawater until he regained consciousness, then held him face to face with his victims. "Look at them! Look! What do you see?"_

_Kirkham coughed and sputtered before cracking a grin. "Collateral damage?"_

"_Wrong! They're kids, innocent children. You murdered their parents and now you murdered them, you bastard!" Darlton backhanded the lieutenant across the face with a clenched fist. "Why? Why in the world would you do such a thing?"_

"_Who are you, mother f-ing Teresa?" Kirkham spat out two teeth that had been knocked loose, "Civilians die all the time; since we're here to kill them anyways, why not try and make some bank?"_

"_There's no we; the only killer here is you."_

"_Oh really?" Kirkham began to laugh. "What did you expect would happen when we invaded? That nobody would get hurt? That no one would be home when we shelled Tokyo to the ground? We knew people were going die. Hell general, you probably wasted more of them calling one airstrike than I have the past two weeks. Doesn't that make you a killer?"_

"_Shut up."_

"_Chivalric Code, knightly conduct, it's all bull. We're killers, you and me. Where the Emperor points we go and spread the Gospel of Darwin; might is right, weakness is sin, and the wages of sin are death."_

"_Shut up!"_

_Kirkham kept talking, taking pleasure in the torment on his captor's face. "Innocent children? Innocent is just another word for weak, and the weak have one fate, to become food. The moment we invaded these kids' fates were sealed. Their existences would have been miserable and meaningless. I'm just putting them to better use…"_

_Unable to form an answer or even words, he let his fists do the talking, pounding the lieutenant into the deck, continuing even as his troops—alarmed by their general's loss of control—tried to pry him away. He shook them off and continued until he was finally tackled to the ground._

_

* * *

_

He kneeled in front of the tablet, erected near the forest where the massacre took place. Unlike that day in the hot summer of 2010, the weather was overcast, windy, and wet. The surface of the monument was covered with raindrops running like a thousand tears. The stone memorial listed the victims' names, birthdates, and age. The altar in front was filled with incense, candles, and bouquets, to which Darlton added his own bundle of flowers—white clovers and bright yellow birdsfoot trefoils. There were also photos of the victims; graduation ceremonies, family portraits, boys and girls dressed in traditional finery for Shichi-Go-San festivals. He reached out and touched each smiling young face—Seven years later, he still remembered the names of all 38 children he failed to save.

His eyes landed on the offerings placed by locals: Juice and snacks, sake for the adults, carefully wrapped sweets for the kids; gestures for the comfort of the living, as the dead were beyond the enjoyment of eating.

Years ago, after bureaucracy and legal maneuvering allowed most of the platoon to escape, Darlton planned his visit here after Kirkham's verdict was read, believing that he should be the bearer of the news—good or ill—to the victims. He had pulled every string, used all his social capital in pushing for the court martial, but it wasn't enough. In the end, though many found the act distasteful, Britannia's ruling elite was not ready to convict one of their own.

Darlton rose to his feet. The wind began to pick up; a storm was on its way. The leaves of the forest stirred around him, needles of rain stinging the side of his somber face.

"I'm sorry."

It was not an apology for the past, but for what was to come.

* * *

He shut the door to the rusty warehouse, one of thousands occupying miles of industrial waterfront facing Tokyo Bay. The lights blinked and swayed slightly from the ceiling from the force of the gale outside. A single shipping container sat in the middle of the warehouse. He had it shipped three weeks ago to the address in Chiba Port, a mere hour's drive to Tokyo. Opening a hatch on the outside of the container, he applied his palm to a scanner and a digital voice came to life. "Good evening, General. Password please."

"Plan B."

The screen flashed green and he heard bolts behind the double-thick doors unlock. LED lights lit the interior as he entered, revealing an arsenal: Pistols, sub machine guns, carbines, rifles, and machine guns filled the walls. Cases of heavy weapons, ammunition, and other ordnance sat on the floor. He walked past the weaponry to the end, where an upright cylindrical container displayed what appeared to be a sleek, muscular body suit, complete with cape and helmet.

Years ago, when knightmare frame development was in its infancy, Britannian Special Operations Command began looking into power suits as one way to enhance the capability of individual soldiers. Unlike conventional body armor, which provided protection to the wearer at the cost of additional weight, a power suit would increase mobility, load-bearing capacity, and battlefield awareness, but without the size and bulk of KMFs. The decision to go ahead with the project was as much in response to a perceived need as well as a political one: KMFs—designed to defeat traditional mechanized armies—would contribute little to Special Ops, whose unique mission remained the domain of elite light infantry. Impressed by and jealous of the army's technological transformation through the KMF, SOCOM sought to revolutionize its own capabilities to meet the challenges of the new century.

Darlton—then a young major—was in charge of overseeing the project, so secret it was not given a name or disclosed to other departments within the Service. The project ran into difficulties from the beginning; engineers couldn't miniaturize and integrate a stable power source. Weight was an issue, as existing technology could not provide both protection and lifting power required by the project without making the final product impractically heavy; the R&D team began calling their project the Zero suit, referring to the probability that the project would reach fruition. The team ultimately came up with a hybrid solution: Synthetic strands that mimicked human muscle, but far stronger, surrounded by nano gel that altered density and rigidity in response to the user's movement and external force, finished with strips of super light carbon plating.

Pressure on the project continued to mount as rival development of KMFs progressed rapidly. Increased specs and extra capabilities were demanded, causing redesigns and delays: The suit was to have slash-harkens. The cape had to enable gliding for short distances. A small radar was to be incorporated. Costs spiraled out of control; the helmet alone—a full-enclosure design with an oval indicating the face—cost 100 million pounds to design and build. The suit took 30 minutes for the user to wear and remove; the power supply issue was never fully solved. The first two prototypes were destroyed during testing, setting the project back by a year. In the interim, the first production KMF began to reach army units, who responded with rave reviews.

The nail in the coffin for the power suit was the successful invasion of Japan. The Glasgow's groundbreaking performance was credited with the victory and changed warfare forever. SOCOM, embarrassed by the failure of its expensive pet project, pulled the plug and ordered all records and samples destroyed. The research team was dispersed, sworn to secrecy on penalty of prolonged, painful death. The project, which never officially existed in the first place, was wiped from institutional memory. Darlton—by then a general with clout of his own—had other ideas, and wasting precious pounds from the taxpayer was not amongst them.

The suit before him was the fifth prototype, as close to a production model to emerge from over a decade's worth of research and labor. The color—from helmet to boots—was jet black, a choice not made for style points but the fact that the project was shelved before a camouflage scheme could be applied. Contrary to conventional wisdom, black was a terrible color for concealment in most situations. Fortunately for Darlton, a stormy night was the exception.

* * *

_The Princess found her teacher in his bedroom. The windows and blinds were shut; the room smelled like must and alcohol. Its occupant reflected the state of the room; Darlton sat on his bed with his head bowed, face haggard and unshaven. In his left hand was a flask, in his right hand a pistol._

"_You're going to kill yourself?" Cornelia held her breath when he scratched his neck with the muzzle of the gun, exhaling when she saw that the safety was on, for now. "Because of what that man said? Because of what he did?"_

"_He wouldn't have had the chance if we never invaded." Darlton took a deep pull from the flask._

"_The Empire…"_

"_Screw the Empire."_

"… _Sakuradite is the future. Japan owned most of it and conspired with the Chinese and Europeans to deny us access. We had no choice." Cornelia continued softly but sternly. "Left alone, they would either have joined the EU or been annexed by the Federation; you know all this." _

_He did. "But we're not the ones who pay the price."_

"_That's the way it's been and always will be, unless you do something to change things."_

"_How?"_

"_Live. Live and lead by example, mentor your sons, your subordinates, the future leaders." Cornelia crossed her arms: In her years knowing him, Andreas Darlton had always been the very model of a knight and soldier, intelligent and brave, confident yet humble. She could not bear to see her role model in such a state. "You're a good man, Darlton. Your death solves nothing; alive you can teach others your ideals, and perhaps one day the military will live up to your vision of what it ought to be. You can't let someone like Kirkham define who we are, why we do what we do; you can't let him win."_

_A spark of emotion stirred within him. "He can't get away."_

"_He won't, none of them will, unless you let them." She kneeled in front of him, forcing him to lift his face and look at her. _

_"You have to see this through."_

_

* * *

_

Claudio knocked again on the door to the hotel room. "Weird. Dad said he was going to bed early and that he'd see us in the morning."

Lelouch shifted the clear bottle of Cognac in his arms, a rare item he pilfered from Clovis' collection. He and Claudio had planned on surprising Darlton in order to cheer him up after the disappointing outcome of the trial. "Have you tried calling?"

"Yeah, not answering, left me a keycard though."

They found the door's bolt unlatched. The suite was lit but appeared empty. Claudio checked the bathroom and found no sign of use. His father's uniform hung neatly in the closet, as were his dress shoes.

"Captain, you better come see this."

Claudio walked quickly to where Lelouch was standing. On top of the desk were two pairs of ornate stars—silver pips from his uniform collar denoting the rank of major general. Left also was a velvet case holding his Victoria Cross and Bar, which he wore on important occasions and today at trial. There were two envelopes addressed to Princess Cornelia and Claudio. He tore open the latter and began to read quickly. Lelouch didn't open Cornelia's letter but had a good guess of what the gist contained. "He's going to kill Kirkham, isn't he?"

"This is insane." Claudio gripped the letter in his hands, not believing his eyes. "He's going to take out Kirkham and his entire platoon, alone. It's suicide. Even if he survives he'll be charged with treason and become a fugitive."

"Then there's no time to lose." Lelouch took off for the door.

"To do what?"

"Stop him before he succeeds."

* * *

The champagne flowed inside the luxury penthouse where the former lieutenant was serving out his sentence. Police were nowhere to be seen. Kirkham—surrounded by all the former members of his platoon jetted in for the occasion—downed his third shot of Vodka and howled. "Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty I'm free at last!"

"Congratulations, lieutenant. Always knew you'd make it out."

"Thank you. Thank you. I knew that too." Kirkham puffed as a corporal gave him a light. "Time flies, doesn't it? Last I recall Tokyo was still a pile of smelly, smoking rubble. Now we've got this beautiful new Concession."

"You ain't seen nothing yet, lieutenant." The corporal pocketed the lighter. "After things settle down a bit we'll take you to Babel Tower and throw you a real party. They got clubs, casinos, cage fights, massage, broads, and all kinds of off-the-menu specials; place makes Las Vegas look like Salt Like City."

"It's a date." Shaping his mouth into an O, Kirkham exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "The old man wants me back in school, get an MBA. But I already know business, and right now Area Eleven is the place to be."

A private scratched his head. "I don't get it. Why the heck would you want to stick around here for?"

"Think, dimwit. All those little Elevens who lost their parents? Ghettos are full of them. It'd be easier than taking candy from a baby to package and ship them to the Asian continent."

"I don't know, lieutenant. We got caught once before you know."

Kirkham dismissed the naysayer with a flick cigar ash. "Empire's too busy screwing Europe—or is it the other way around—to pay attention to smuggling around here. We're off the radar; coast's clear, no better time to cash in."

A couple of people exchanged looks. "If you say so, boss."

"I do say so. Last I checked, traders still paid triple for virgins and the waitlist for healthy young lungs was still miles long; it's our duty as good citizens of the world to provide these poor folk with what they need and get paid!"

This resulted in a standing ovation. Kirkham tossed back another shot and was beginning to feel a buzz when his phone rang. "Yeah?"

"Sir, there's a gentleman here to see you."

It was the security guard down by gatehouse. "Who is he?"

There was an unusually long pause from the other end. "George McGrath, says he served with you in Shizuoka seven years ago."

"George? Send him right up!" He hung up and turned to his friends. "Old killer McGrath. Didn't hear back from him when I was ringing all of you; guess he wanted to surprise me."

"Sergeant McGrath? I thought he died a short while ago, drunken driving or something."

"What?" Heads turned when the ding of the elevator signaled its arrival. The door slid open. Kirkham's eyes widened, his cigar fell from his lips.

A seven-foot tall man in black stepped from the elevator carrying an evil-looking belt-fed cannon. The masked stranger pulled back the action, the sound of a round chambering causing everyone to stop what they were doing.

Kirkham was suddenly sober. "Fuck."

* * *

Diethard Reid had been cooped up in his stakeout van for two days. From his informants he learned that Leonard Kirkham was holed up at 1220 Hyde Avenue, a up-scale business stay condo completely rented out by his father. He also learned that private security took the place of police, whose official excuse for their absence was to protect the privacy of the inmate by avoiding drawing attention; clearly, a stream of limos and luxury SUVs entering the house of a recently convicted criminal was not regarded as attention-drawing.

Had they known Kirkham's whereabouts, most journalists would have tried to force entry with cameras rolling, only to be stopped dead at the gates. Diethard's plan was to sit a block away, filming all who came and went, hopefully getting footage of Kirkham leaving as he pleased, which would then headline the evening news: _"House Arrest a Farce: Convicted Aristocrat Lives Above the Law." _

His watch alarm went off, rousing him from a two hour nap. It was nearly midnight, the gale was at its peak, the streets were abandoned. Wind and rain lashed loudly against the side of the van. Diethard checked his camera, trained on the front gate of Kirkham's residence, and saw that the guard who'd been manning the gatehouse was missing. He rewound the video on his laptop and when he saw what happened during his nap, bolted out of the van with his camera on his shoulders.

* * *

The term machine gun was a gross understatement for the 14.5mm KPV. Built by Russians as an anti-aircraft gun, its design was copied and updated by the Empire, who found its power and rate of fire useful against KMFs as well. Like most weapons of Russian origin, the KPV was ugly and heavy, weighing in at over 160 pounds with 300 rounds of ammunition, but in Darlton's hands—assisted by the power suit—its feel was comfortably similar to that of a light machine gun.

He went to work, blowing the nearest cluster of goons to smithereens. It was every general's ideal situation: No innocents in the vicinity and weapons free. Every man present had sold his soul to the devil seven years ago and now Darlton was here to collect. Kirkham's men were still former soldiers however and quickly dove for cover. Through the sensors in his helmet, Darlton was able to see framed silhouettes of everyone in the lounge even through smoke and physical barriers.

"Lesson One: Don't mistake concealment for cover."

He turned his gun on an unlucky guest hiding behind a pillar and watched his rounds chew through two feet of reinforced concrete and turn his target into paste. The deafening roar of his weapon was a gentle hum in his ears, thanks to the helmet selectively filtering out unhealthy and otherwise distracting background noise, like screaming. He positioned himself at a point between the elevator and the emergency stairwell with clear lanes of fire to both exits. He cut down a pair who made a run for the stairs before swinging his gun back to vaporize someone dumb enough to try to get on the elevator. He tore through his helpless foes, cowering behind walls, furniture, and each other. The lounge turned to Swiss cheese, the walls and floors covered in human debris.

The lead storm came to an abrupt end. Even firing bursts he'd run through 300 rounds in less than a minute. From somewhere in the vast, smoke-filled, newly ventilated room, he heard Kirkham scream shrilly.

"Shoot back, you bums!"

How a man under house arrest manages to bring so many guns into his house was a mystery to Darlton, who took cover as the remaining half of Kirkham's platoon returned fire. He was covered in a shower of concrete and plaster bits as the pillar he stood behind turned into a chewed up apple core. He dropped the KPV on the ground with a thud and reached to his sides for a pair of general purpose machineguns. The heft and recoil of the crew-served weapons—a relatively modest 30 pounds loaded—usually required the user to lie prone on the ground with a bipod, but the strength and stability provided by the suit permitted Darlton to dual wield without detriment to his aim. When his enemies paused to reload, he stepped out from behind the pillar.

"Lesson Two: In a shootout, the winner is the man with one more bullet left."

The lead storm resumed. Several former squad mates had a brain wave to suppress and flank their lone opponent; the plan backfired. They discovered too late that their bullets were bouncing off their target. To the man inside the suit the rounds felt like bugs hitting the car windshield. If the manual was to be trusted, the suit was immune up to 12.7mm, so he'd be fine as long as none of Kirkham's platoon carried a rocket launcher. He watched one goon pick up a dead buddy and scoot towards the emergency exit.

"Lesson Three: When using a human shield, grab a fat guy."

* * *

"Good morning, it is just past midnight and we are at the scene in front of 1220 Hyde Avenue, where Leonard Kirkham is being kept under house arrest. The audience may have difficult hearing over this weather, but there appears to have been a break in and a shootout is taking place as we speak inside the building. Two bodies have already been found outside behind the gatehouse. A warning to parents and young viewers, the following images may become disturbing…"

From the television in the dashboard, Lelouch followed the shaky camera's view, raised and zoomed in on the penthouse of the condo, from where intermittent flashes could be seen. Claudio sat anxiously behind the wheel. Diethard yelled when someone leapt out of a shattered window in a desperate bid to escape whatever was inside; a censor mosaic covered the jumper moments before he hit the ground. Lelouch winced. "Looks like Darlton is holding his own."

"That's good to hear."

* * *

400 rounds of 7.62mm later the lounge was clear. Darlton waded through the smoke and dust, searching the room for anyone he missed when he spotted the trapdoor in the floor behind the bar.

"Die, rebel scum!"

The man who'd been playing possum stared in disbelief when the man clad in black armor caught his knife and then snapped the carbon steel blade clean off. Stumbling back, he shrieked when the same hand grabbed him by the face and lifted him off the ground. The large hand's fingers dug into his skull like a vise. "Where's Kirkham?"

"D… Downstairs! Basement parking lot!"

Darlton increased pressure to his grip until he heard a crunch. Dropping the limp form, he studied the smallish trap door and the shot up elevator. Then he looked at the window.

Kirkham and the corporal piled into his Lamborghini; the lieutenant had the good sense of never firing a round during the shootout, knowing that bullets attracted bullets in return. "Who the heck was that?"

"Don't know, sent by the Elevens maybe. I'm not hanging around to find out."

The super car sped out from its parking space, sending sparks flying as the vehicle screeched from the lot and out of the winding ramp onto ground level, where it suddenly jerked to a halt. "Why'd you stop? Get Going!"

"The car's stuck! It's… oh shit."

Kirkham saw his friend gaping at the rearview mirror and looked back from his seat. Twenty yards behind them—crouching amidst a cascade of broken glass, asphalt cratered from his landing—was the man in black, his cape whipping in the storm like a nightmare, holding back their escape with what appeared to be slash harkens fired from his arms. Kirkham screamed at his driver. "Floor it, you bastard, floor it!"

Darlton dug in his heels and began retracting the cables, feet crunching into the pavement as the desperate Lamborghini swerved from side to side, burning its tires against the slippery pavement. A bold red message popped up in the corner of his vision, and a voice from the suit's operating system warned him that the suit's power supply was draining rapidly under the strain of the tug of war.

The general gathered his strength and pulled with a mighty roar, tearing off the supercar's rear fender, axle and wheels. The disemboweled Lamborghini spun and crashed to a halt against the perimeter wall, against which was plastered the driver, who had gone straight through the windshield. Darlton walked up to the smoking wreckage, tore off the passenger side door and threw an unconscious Kirkham over his shoulders.

"Wait! Who are you? Why are you doing this? Are you trying to make a political statement?"

Diethard was sprinting towards the scene when the masked man turned around. The anchorman swallowed, holding his ground at what he thought was a polite distance.

Darlton checked the time: start to finish his assault lasted five minutes six seconds. The appearance of an innocent witness was unexpected, but better a reporter than the police, who he was reluctant to hurt and were probably on their way. His body had been moving on auto, focused on the directive of kill and capture—the lull in violence and Diethard's question prompted him to think.

He had no political aim. His motive was not purely revenge; logically, all revenge was pointless because two wrongs do not make a right. There was also no one to avenge; not the victims, whose wrongful deaths had been dismissed by the only system which could have granted them justice, but failed to punish the guilty. Outside the law his acts could have no meaning, achieve no good.

"Zero."

With sirens approaching in the distance, he fired his slash harken at the top of the adjacent building and swung away with his prize.

* * *

"Holy moley." Tamaki gawked at the small TV in the hideout. "Did you see that guy? He tore up that Ferrari like it was made of toilet paper!"

Ougi scratched his head. "Zero? What kind of answer is that? What does he mean?"

"Maybe that's his name." Tamaki popped open a can of beer. "Here's a toast to my hero Zero; may he find creative ways to make that bastard suffer."

* * *

The first thing Kirkham felt was a skull-splitting headache. The rest of his body felt like a massive sore. Gradually the fog lifted from his senses and he found himself in the midst of a surreal scene: He was sitting on a barrel at the end of a pier that stretched deep into Tokyo Bay as the storm churned the ocean surrounding him. His hands were cuffed behind him; he was soaked and freezing. When he tried to stand he fell on his face.

"Rise and shine."

The menacing voice, deep and digitally altered, would have caused him to jump had he been able to. He looked down and saw that his feet were encased in a large block of cement. "What is this?"

"Rapid setting concrete, used to patch damaged airfields. It's denser than water, so if I were to push you over…" Kirkham shrieked when the masked man dragged and tossed him close to the edge of the pier. "You're fish food."

"Please, don't do this! I have Money, my father is a wealthy man, he'll pay anything you want, double whatever you were promised! Triple!"

"Duke Morley's money saved you from the courts, but they can't save you from me."

He was grabbed by the neck and stood. "Who are you? You're not an Eleven. What did I ever do to you?"

The masked man's tone became even more dangerous. "At least try and remember your crimes before you die."

"What crimes? Those Elevens? That wasn't me!" He yelled at his captor through the howling wind and crashing waves. "Haven't you seen the news? I'm innocent. I was just there!"

"So was I." He reached back behind his head, and a mechanical sliding noise was heard as the helmet came off, revealing the man underneath.

"You! You son of a... You can't do this. You're a bloody general! I'm a civilian, there are rules. I… I have rights, damn it!"

"So did those people you killed. So did those kids you locked in a container and dumped in the ocean." Teeth clenching at the memory, Darlton grabbed him by the jaw and squeezed. "Remember what you said? The weak are food for the strong. Guess what, you're also part of the food chain, and from where I'm standing you're nothing more than a piece of meat."

"Well said."

Darlton spun around; Lelouch and Claudio walked towards where he and Kirkham were standing. He narrowed his eyes. "How did you find me?"

Claudio, wrapped in a heavy rain-coat, held onto a side rail. "Educated guess: There are roadblocks everywhere, you couldn't have gotten far without a car."

"You took him alive, which meant you had something special planned." Lelouch stood with his hands in his pocket, his buttoned-down black trench coat ripping in the wind as the surging waves threatened to sweep all of them into the bay. "Since his most notorious crime was at sea, we took a chance and headed for the nearest body of water, Tokyo Bay. This is the only sector relatively abandoned."

"I see; I should've expected no less from you two." He smiled proudly and seized Kirkham by the shoulder, pushing him to the edge. "But my mind is made. You read my letters. Everything I've done today goes against the laws I swore to uphold. That's why I resigned, so my actions today do not reflect upon my unit or the service. Everything ends here, now."

"Stop talking like I'm not here!" Kirkham squirmed, trying to wriggle out of Darlton's steely grip. "This guy is a criminal! Shoot him and get me out…"

"Shut up or I'll end you myself." Claudio turned to his father. "Dad, think about it. Your life, your career, throw away everything you've achieved for this guy? It's not worth it!"

"I know. But he needs to pay. This is the only way."

"What about your duties, your pledge of fealty? You swore an oath to General Cornelia, have you forgotten?"

"… Her Highness will understand." For the first time that night, Darlton's voice and body language betrayed weariness. "I've taught you and your brothers all I know. It's up to you now, Claudio; never forget the meaning of chivalry."

Things were at a stalemate; Lelouch, who had remained silent for the past few minutes, walked to the end of the pier until he was standing an arm's length away from the two. "Your intentions are honorable and admirable, Darlton, but in times like these—in a world like ours—good intentions must rise above romantic sentiment in order to prevail."

"What do you mean?"

"To survive the strong must feed upon the weak. This is nature's law and cannot change. Therefore, those who seek to protect the weak have but one course: prey upon the predators and visit violence and fear upon those who do evil, as you have done tonight." An ocean surge crashed over the railings and a stretch of pier disappeared momentarily. "You have a decision: Right now, there are three people in the world who know who the man behind the mask was tonight."

Kirkham craned his neck at the prince. "Three? Don't you mean four?"

"No. Three."

Lelouch planted his foot in the lieutenant's chest, sneered at the stupid look on his face, and pushed. Knocked off balance, Kirkham screamed as he fell back and was immediately swallowed by the angry ocean.

The prince turned to face his friend and mentor, who looked up from the spot where Kirkham vanished. "I won't stop you if you still want to turn yourself in, only consider this: the world will not miss scum like him, but all of us—your troops, Claudio, my sister and myself—will suffer immeasurably deprived of your courage and conscience. The choice is yours, Zero."

* * *

The following day, residents of the Concession rose to one of the most beautiful mornings in recent memory. Trees and flowers swayed in light breeze and sunlight, the air was sweet to breathe and the sky was clear and blue, as if last night's storm had dispelled the miasma and tension hanging over Tokyo for the past week.

Enjoying their view of the garden from their table at the Strand Hotel were a pair of generals, one young and one old. At 8:05 AM the Coffee Room was relatively empty, allowing the two to breakfast in quiet comfort. They partook liberally of the hotel's excellent Blue Mountain coffee which, in addition to hints of little sleep on their faces, led bystanders to infer that the two had a late night. Little did they know.

Lelouch toyed with the white chess piece beneath his chin, unable to recall the vaguely familiar setup in front of him. "… Bishop to G5."

The older man took a swig from his cup, which in his hands resembled an espresso cup. "Knight to A4."

The prince narrowed his bleary eyes at the board; recognizing his mistake, he let his head fall back. "Very unsportsmanlike of you, taking advantage of my condition to reenact the Byrne-Fischer match."

"Only this time the wily veteran trumps the prodigy." Darlton chuckled as Lelouch stretched his arms in a yawn. "Besides, I thought you'd be accustomed to three hours of sleep per day after Africa."

"Apparently not." The prodigy blew his nose; running around in inclement weather had caught him a cold, leaving him groggy and sniffling.

"Lelouch!" The few heads present turned at the Governor's sudden appearance. Clovis marched hastily across the dining hall to his brother's table. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you! I wouldn't have found you if your maid hadn't told me you were here."

"Not so loud please." Lelouch motioned his brother to sit down and ordered some soothing Earl Gray. "To answer your question: You couldn't reach me because I left my cell phone at home. Darlton and I were up late, catching up, having a drink... speaking of which, if you happen to be missing a bottle of Louis XIV de Remy Martin, it's upstairs in the generals' room. The bottle, that is."

"Thanks for the drink, Governor; really warmed the cockles of this old soldier's heart."

"I uh… you're welcome?" Like a customer at a fixed shell game, Clovis looked perplexedly between the two men before sliding down in his chair. "Well, while you two were enjoying yourselves, the world's been turned upside down and I've been forced to sort out the mess."

"What happened?"

"Someone attacked the house where Leonard Kirkham was being held, now he's missing. Here," Clovis placed a folder on the table. "Big shoot out, dozens dead; seems there was a party when the attack took place."

Darlton flipped through the report, looking very interested. "Wasn't he under house arrest? Where were the police?"

"He wore a wristband; we would have known if he tried to leave." Face suddenly warm, Clovis crossed his arms in a huff. "Not that police presence would've made a difference with the firepower the kidnappers had: The carnage was so awful, crime scene investigators could only guess a body count. They won't have an exact number until they piece everyone back together at the lab; bloody massacre."

Lelouch laughed inwardly at Clovis' ironic choice of words. "Massacre implies a one-sided affair. It says here that Kirkham and his guests—all veterans from his platoon—fought back, more than 1000 rounds fired by both sides."

"Just a figure of speech." Clovis ordered breakfast and helped himself to some of Lelouch's coffee. "One of the assailants was caught on video by a journalist—that Diethard Reid again, always where the trouble is—and left his name before he carried off Kirkham."

"Zero?" Darlton glanced up from the report. "Doesn't tell us much, does it?"

"Hardly; we have no idea who this fellow is. Could be terrorist, hired professional, foreign operative, anyone." Glancing over his shoulders, Clovis leaned in with his audience and spoke in a whisper. "Just between us, I suspect he was sent by Pendragon. See now, you don't hear it discussed often, but there are quite a few blue bloods who consider Kirkham a bad apple and wish he'd do us all a service by disappearing, or knocking himself off."

"You don't say?" Clovis nodded confidently. Lelouch spooned a cube of sugar into his cup. "Well I certainly don't envy the job ahead of you, but at least you have a name and face..."

"Mask, a real plain one at that."

"Right, a name and a mask." Lelouch smiled at his brother's knit brows. "Mind if I give some advice?"

"I'm all ears."

"Do nothing."

Clovis choked on his coffee. "Pardon me?"

"Look, if this Zero is terrorist then Kirkham's already dead. But if retribution was the goal why not just blow him away with everyone else? Alternatively, if this was motivated by money—everyone knows Duke Morley will pony up for his prodigal son—then you'll hear from the kidnapper soon enough. And if this whole thing was done under the auspices of Pendragon as you sagely suggested, then of course it'd be best to distance yourself from the grisly business."

Darlton nodded. "Furinkazan."

"I didn't know you spoke Japanese, General."

"It's originally from Sun Tzu's _Art of War_: In action be swift and unstoppable, like wind and wild fire, but when the situation calls for inaction—like the present—be steadfast and immovable, like the forest and the mountain."

Clovis tapped his finger as his mind went over the famous metaphor, finally turning to his younger sibling. "So what you're saying is I should become the forest."

"Yes, become the forest." Lelouch saw that his brother remained doubtful but was beginning to waver. "Certainly, even someone like Kirkham has his sympathizers, but these must be few and dwindling. Go through the gestures, enough to placate but no more. There's simply no profit in it."

"I suppose you're right, though I'm sure to catch earfuls from Duke Morley and his clique." Clovis sighed deeply, perking up a little when his blueberry pancakes arrived. "On the bright side, at least I'll have fewer disgruntled Elevens to deal with."

Lelouch exchanged a smile with Darlton and raised his cup. "That's the spirit."

_To be Continued._

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Not what you were expecting? Though it may not be apparent at the moment, Zero's appearance will have an effect on the rest of the story, even if Zero himself is not central to the plot. Hopefully, this chapter offers a glimpse of how even an evil empire Britannia is gray, which makes sense when one considers how varied the background and upbringing of its people are. In case anyone was wondering: Ferrari was not a typo, Tamaki just can't tell them apart.

On an aside, I was flattered to get a request from a reader to translate Lelouch of Britannia into French… so if anyone has Japanese-English translation experience, I'd love to be able to submit the story to Sunrise for consideration.


	27. Thief in the Night

**Chapter 27: Thief in the Night**

_"Dear pizza thief,_

_Recent student and staff complaints have brought you to our attention. This is a reminder that stealing pizzas from student organized events and the cafeteria kitchen violates the Student Honor Code, section 5(b)(ii) and section 1(a). The possible consequences for your conduct are severe: demerits, notification of your parents, and suspension up to five days. Most importantly, you will lose the esteem of your teachers and peers when you are caught. No pizza in the world—no matter how fresh, hot, and delicious—is worth such humiliation._

_You are hereby ordered to cease your acts of larceny and turn yourself in to the Student Council immediately. We have our best man on your case—a cool, talented, dangerous man who will follow you to the ends of the earth. If you surrender, I, Milly Ashford, promise to use all my influence with the board of trustees to intercede on your behalf with the administration so that any ill effects on your college applications may be minimized. _

_Yours Truly,_

_Student Council President, _

_Milly C. Ashford."_

* * *

The man crossed his leg, then crossed it the other way. Dressed in a striped nickel-gray suit, Sawasaki Atsushi looked like a sullen scarecrow as he tapped his knee with nervous energy. A jade ashtray was stuffed with half-smoked Longlife cigarettes. An imitation antique lamp lit the hotel room. The bureaucrat glanced furtively at the clock and reached for another smoke only to find the carton empty. Muttering a curse, he crushed the wrapper and threw the wad under the table.

The phone rang. He snatched up the receiver before the first rang finished. "You're late."

"_Our meal lasted longer than expected."_

"Get your priorities straight. My men are embarked and ready…"

"_Operation Hai-Long-Wang is postponed."_

"What?" His pitch rose shrilly. "Why? For how long?"

"_Indefinitely. The EU-Britannian conflict has not escalated as we hoped. Without the Empire preoccupied with Europe, proceeding now presents undue risk."_

"That is not true. The authorities in Japan are distracted by the appearance of Zero, whose deed has reenergized the resistance." Sawasaki did not know who Zero was or whose side he was on. What he did know was Operation Sea Dragon, which he had been planning and preparing every day for the past four years. "Everything is in place. Strike now and the entire nation will rally to us."

"_We disagree. From our observation, the Elevens remain happily servile under their new master."_

"Master…" The former Chief Cabinet Secretary snorted derisively. "Clovis is a milquetoast; it has been weeks since the Kirkham Kidnapping and he has done nothing. He is a sad excuse for a leader. If he cannot deal with one man opposed to his rule, he will soil himself when 18,000 crack troops land on his shores."

"_The Black Prince is formidable."_

"Not without his army." Sawasaki had foreseen this debate the day he learned of the prince's arrival in Japan. He had gotten to know his hosts very well since he came to their doorsteps seeking asylum seven years ago. They were scavengers—nocturnal, opportunistic, with unmatched survival instincts. They had circled and salivated over the juicy carcass of Japan for years, but were now having second thoughts at the sight of the young lion standing over their prize. "Fame has gotten to young Lelouch's head, and now he spends his days drowning in wine and women. We have seen this before."

A group murmur was heard on the other end. The Japanese statesman detected progress and pressed his case. "Our great nations share an ancient saying: One cannot seize the cub without entering the tiger's den. A sixth of Japan's Sakuradite deposits lies in Kyushu—10% of the world's supply—but only those who dare can reap the reward."

Silence, followed by a rebuke. _"Despite your experiences you have little respect for your enemy, a harbinger of defeat." _It was yet a different voice, one of eight, each of whom spoke in the plural on behalf of the collective. _"We are concerned history shall repeat and our resources shall be wasted."_

"This time is different. We are prepared, they are not. We'll be the ones catching them by surprise." He looked up to the Japanese flag displayed on the wall, which he took from the National Diet Building. "Upon my honor, I swear I shall succeed… and die if I do not."

More murmuring and deliberation; Sawasaki swallowed, his throat dried by nicotine and anticipation. The clock on the wall ticked loudly.

"_Very well, General Zhao will contact you shortly. We have invested much treasure in your endeavor… do not betray us."_

His hosts hung up.

Sawasaki slumped back in the chair. He ran his bony hand through his hair and found it slick with perspiration. A few minutes later he rose and pulled back the window curtains. The island city glittered beneath him, and beyond the ink-black ocean, mere hours away by ferry, lay Japan.

* * *

"With three days until the Founder's Fair, Ashford Academy is bubbling with excitement as students strive towards the finish line. Leading the charge are the members of the Student Council, joined by two distinguished honorary members who graciously volunteered their time to…"

Lelouch folded the school newspaper, looking like he'd just been served lukewarm tea at breakfast. "This article is inaccurate."

Shirley, pen twirling in hand, turned to the elder of the distinguished honorary members of their student council. "Where?"

"I did not volunteer."

"What a coincidence then! You showed up right when we were about to make the rounds."

"Milly texted, saying she had something important to tell me, and to meet her afterschool." Lelouch gave his old friend a dirty look; she smiled innocently. "You know had it been anyone else, they would almost certainly have gotten the wrong idea."

"Awww, were you disappointed?" Milly handed him a roll of tickets, each stamped with the President's seal. "Here you are; one hundred tickets. These will be good for all the booths and the raffle on the day of the fair."

"Thank you."

Her hand remained extended, palm up. "That'll be fifty Pounds."

"What?" Lelouch frowned. "I thought council members got free tickets."

"That may be how they do things in Pendragon, but we run a tight, clean ship here, your lordship."

"Fine. You can have the tickets back."

Milly's wiped at invisible tears and quivered the corner of her lips. "How could you treat me with such indifference after I nursed you back to health from that awful cold? Day and night, I put aside my duties as President and stayed by your side, feeding you, comforting you, changed your clothes, bath…"

"Okay. Okay." Lelouch grumbled as he dug for his wallet, not wishing the world to hear Milly's sensational account of her playing nurse to his English patient. He had only himself to blame; running around in the middle of a freezing storm had consequences. Following the Kirkham incident, Darlton returned to Britannia unmolested and Clovis, after considering his younger sibling's advice, did not drive the investigation. Tabloids and experts filled the air with theories ranging from mob to government-sanctioned assassination.

For his role in ridding the world of a monster, Lelouch was rewarded with fever, chills, blocked nose and sore throat and was confined to bed for a week. During that time he was tended to in turn by Sayoko and Milly; Nunnally would've kept him company, but her constitution was no stronger than his and he was afraid she'd catch whatever he had. He resisted Milly at first, but Sayoko could not refuse her mistress and had to wait on Nunally during school. Lelouch yielded. Over the week people from the student council visited him with well-wishes and goodies. It was as comfortable a situation a patient could hope for. The lone exception was when Lelouch found himself alone with Kallen who, armed with a sharp fruit knife, peeled the apples Nina brought him. She also ate half of the apples.

The student council continued their inspection of the preparations for the festival. "Neeeeext up, the Italian Cuisine Club. They will offer wood-fired margarita pizzas from a brick oven." Rivalz inhaled deeply when they walked into the busy instructional kitchen.

"There's more than one cooking club?"

Nina flushed and averted her eyes when she realized the prince was talking to her. "Um, yes, students from the original club couldn't agree on what kind of food to make; some wanted to split off. Milly agreed to let the form a new club and have priority access to the kitchen if they could outsell their rivals."

Lelouch lifted a brow; it was a good call. Milly crossed her arms and puffed out her chest proudly, causing Rivalz to walk into a cabinet corner.

After checking all the boxes on the list, the group left and headed downstairs. Shirley walked up besides Lelouch. "So… I have a question I've been dying to ask."

"Yes?"

"What's it like growing up with ninety-three brothers and sisters?"

He rubbed his chin. "Well, for starters, it's not like having ninety-three brothers and sisters. Each of the Emperor's wives has her own estate within the palace grounds, and each runs her own household. The ages of the wives and children vary greatly. Odysseus, my oldest brother is… 33. I believe the emperor's youngest wife is 21."

Kallen showed a look of revulsion. "That's kind of gross."

"I don't disagree. Anyways, the last issue was born two years ago. Aside from true siblings—that is to say, borne and brought up by the same mother—the rest are like normal strangers. I could try and tell you all the names of my half-siblings, but I can't guarantee I'd get them all."

"I wonder what it'd be like if all the Emperor's wives and children lived together." Shirley pictured the scene and giggled.

"They tried that once. Didn't work out."

There was a brief lull. Rivalz cleared his throat. "So... how many wives do you think you'll be having?"

* * *

Water dripped from the ceiling and the blinking fluorescent lights swayed whenever a metro rumbled overhead. Rolo sat on a folded stool and read a book—a story about high school boys and girls flirting and fighting and falling in love. It was a difficult read. He looked up now and then to see how the interview was going.

This was his first trip to Hong Kong, which the Empire turned from a sleepy village into one of the world's leading financial centers. The former colony now belonged to the Chinese Federation. Two decades ago, as the end of the 99 year lease drew near, there had been lively debate from the bar counter to the Emperor's Round Table on whether Britannia should turn over the territory. Hong Kong was considered the model colony, the crown jewel of the empire: integrated, prosperous, and peaceful. Some analogized the situation to returning an adopted child to biological parents who made their claim only after all the hardship and expenditure for raising a child to maturity had been borne by someone else.

Certainly there was no debate in the Federation; the prevailing view in China was that all Hong Kong yearned to be free from its colonial yoke and return to the embrace of the motherland, which it has been an inseparable part of for 5,000 years. In the interest of continued friendship between the two great powers, respect for regional stability, and international comity, the Federation urged the Empire to honor its word, or else.

As is par of course in dealings between great powers, the people most affected—the citizens of Hong Kong—had no say.

In the end, the doves at Pendragon—diplomats, fiscal conservatives, and business leaders—persuaded the former Emperor that Hong Kong was not worth fighting over. A common argument was even if Britannia succeeded in holding onto Hong Kong, the Federation would simply cut off water and electricity. The decision to give up the territory was much criticized, and the criticism only strengthened when shortly after the Federation aligned itself with the EU against Britannia. The backlash helped define foreign policy for the next generation: the Empire would never, ever, relinquish its hard earned acquisitions again.

The interview was being conducted in Cantonese, which Rolo was not fluent in, but he sensed his local counterpart—a young Asian man with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up—was making progress with the shaking man handcuffed to his chair.

Interrogation was not Rolo's forte. It was not that he was morally opposed or unwilling to get his hands dirty. The fact was his youthful good looks did not lend his words credibility, and often he would have to cause much suffering before his subjects took him seriously. This ran counter to the art and object of interrogation, which was to obtain information with the least amount of physical invasion, undesirable for many reasons.

He was here to provide security and support. It helped that he had not been in Hong Kong before, and his face was unfamiliar to competing services operating in the city. He was dressed like a prep school student, and his chic uniform—navy blue jacket, imperial red tie, checkered slacks—contrasted starkly with the business at hand.

Rolo remembered the four Is of intelligence gathering: Ideals, Incentives, Intimidation, and finally, as a last resort, Injury. For now the interrogator stuck with show and tell; he showed the informant the instruments he would use on him if he did not talk while telling him that he could walk away to a bank account containing a nice bonus if he would just cooperate.

The young agent studied the professional at work: When the frightened subject seemed on the fence, he produced his smartphone and showed him high-definition videos of what they did to people who did not talk. Rolo took note of this innovative use of mobile technology. The subject began to talk.

Thirty minutes later, the pair emerged onto street level from the subway and blended into the well-heeled lunch time crowd. "Well?"

"The Federation is planning a big move."

"Where?"

"Not sure. Australia, Middle East, nowhere near here. It'll be soon though. He said there's no European connection, but that's not something he would know."

"What are the chances he's lying?"

"One out of three? I don't quite believe him myself, but we've been hearing things along a similar vein from various sources. Of course, he knows what we'll do to him if we found out he lied to us."

Rolo said nothing. Though MI6 could be brutal when it chose to be, there were far less civilized intelligence services who preferred Injury as the second, even first I out of the four. But his job was not to think about these matters. They would present their findings—sources indicate high likelihood of Federation direct action against Britannian interests outside Asia—and let the higher ups draw conclusions. He checked his watch. "Do we have time for lunch?"

"Sure, would be a shame if you didn't have dim-sum on your first trip to Hong Kong."

* * *

The student council lunched at a café close to campus. Lelouch picked up the tab, a much appreciated gesture from all except Kallen, who insisted on paying her own. "Did anyone watch Sunday's special report about Zero?"

Rivalz nodded as he chewed a mouthful of garlic bread. "Crazy how many holes they left in the walls."

"I think it's awful." Nina had spaghetti. "I had to change the channel when they started showing recreated footage of the scene."

"Zero, Zero Zero. That's all you've wanted to talk about lately." Milly licked a smidge of pie and ice cream from her spoon and pointed at Kallen's nose. "You, my dear, are completely in love with the Man Behind the Mask."

"I am not! I just think it was extraordinary how he took justice into his own hands."

"Justice?" Lelouch rested his cup back on its saucer. "Masked man armed with illegal assault weapons invades private residence, kills thirty-two and kidnaps the exonerated accused. Mass murder is more like it."

"I'm sure Kirkham and his crew did not have permits for their guns either. Everyone there took part in that massacre, and when the justice system failed to punish them, Zero did." Lelouch shrugged. Kallen held him with an intent gaze. "You must think of him as a terrorist."

"On the contrary, I think he's a hero."

Kallen mouth opened, then closed, then opened. "What?"

"Why not? He killed some very bad men. If I were Zero, I would've cased that lieutenant's feet in cement and dropped him in the deepest part of the ocean."

Kallen watched Lelouch in astonishment. The prince decided that since he had ventured this far he might as well play the line out all the way. "In fact-and this a State Secret, so I am swearing you all to secrecy-I am Zero: Playboy prince by day, avenging angel of justice at night."

Shirley frowned. "…Playboy?"

Kallen sat back, angry now that she realized he had been mocking her. "Zero tore a car in half. You couldn't lift a putter."

"How do you know that beneath these clothes I'm not concealing serious muscle?"

"Ha! Muscles? I can testify…"

"To what's under Lulu's clothes?" Milly placed her hands on the redhead's shoulders. "Is there something the two of you have been keeping from us?"

Kallen's face glowed. She glared at Lelouch, whose relaxed posture and little smile said _what the heck are you talking about? _Kallen stabbed her fried shrimp.

* * *

The janitor wheeled his cleaning cart down the hallway. He met a pair of security guards with pistols strapped to their thighs; they walked passed him as if he was invisible. Mindful of the floor's surveillance cameras' and their blind spots, the janitor unlocked a door and walked in. The sign on the door read _Central AC._

He began working here four months ago. The contractor who handled civilian HR for the military saw that he studied English abroad in Seattle for two years and stamped him through. No one suspected a Master's degree holder applying for a job as a janitor; that was common for Elevens without Honorary Citizenship. His best friend from school—a PhD candidate before Britannia invaded—sold hot dogs in Shibuya. He tried to persuade his friend to join him, but his friend refused: Yes, he hated the Empire for ruining his life. Yes, it was an indignity for him, a Professor, to be peddling hot dogs on the street, but the hot dog stand put food on the table and kept his home lit and warm.

Rummaging through the garbage bin on his cart, the janitor pulled out a canister the size of a roll of toilet paper and a gas mask. With a screwdriver he removed a panel from the vent which carried air to the rest of the Communication and Command Center. He reached up and placed the canister inside the pipe, pushing a button on top. A barely audible hiss signaled the release of its contents. He smiled from behind the mask. "Nippon Banzai."

* * *

Around the same time, a hideous teal hatchback carrying a tourist and his irritable wife pulled up to the gatehouse in front of Fukuoka Naval Base; their GPS was malfunctioning (according to the husband) and they needed help getting back to their hotel.

The security guards exchanged looks,but at least the visit broke the monotony of the shift. One guard walked up to the car with a map in hand; he was shot three times in the chest. His colleague was knocked out of his seat by a high-powered rifle round that punched through the reinforced-glass window and shattered his shoulder. The last thing he saw was the wife walk in, silenced pistol in hand.

The husband texted the go-code into his cellphone. The front gates—access to which was controlled from inside the command center—opened, signaling to the couple that the infiltrators had succeeded. A column of tour buses pulled off the freeway and cruised into the base. Chinese Federation commandos poured out and fanned out towards their targets. They moved silently but swiftly; the landing was scheduled to start in 90 minutes.

* * *

It was another day on the job for the captain of _HMS Black Acre_, an attack submarine of the Royal Navy. Their patrol order, issued eight days ago from Pearl Harbor, was to creep along Japan's coastline while avoiding detection by friendly forces. The Service was concerned by Europe's submarine fleet, which wreaked havoc when the war broke out. As a result training exercises were increased, which meant shorter breaks in between deployments for the captain and his crew of 31. So far the wolf had eluded all the hunters and morale among the crew of was high.

"Captain, come see this."

He walked over to the sonar officer, who oversaw the instruments that served as the submarine's eyes and ears. "What is it?"

"Picking up a lot of activity… lots of activity."

"PACOM said the Koreans are conducting night exercises in this sector from 2300 till 0400 hours." The captain checked the printout from the communication unit, which received messages over extra low frequency when the submarine was submerged and out of reach by normal radio and satellite. The signals were relayed from broadcast stations around the world, the closest of which was in Fukuoka Naval Base. "They should be finishing up soon."

"I know sir, but something's off. Listen." The captain donned the extra pair of headphones. "Twin and single screws, high pitch, water jets. Not DDs or FGs. Have to be small boats; landing craft, bearing South South-East. That's Area Eleven, Sir. "

_Odd indeed_. The captain weighed the situation against his orders from PACOM to run silent for the duration of the patrol, and came to a decision. "XO."

"Yes, Captain."

"Antennae Depth. Ready the relay. We're going to check in with Fukuoka."

* * *

"_Lelouch."_

_The boy mumbled before flipping onto his side. A firm grip on his shoulder jolted him awake. Eyes snapping open, he found the imposing silhouette of the Emperor towering by his bed. "Father?"_

"_Get up. Get dressed."_

_He shivered when he climbed out of the warmth of his bed and quickly pulled on a robe. It was barely morning. Out in the hallway he found many of the maids crying. The man servants whispered among themselves in grave tones. "What's happened, father?"_

_Charles did not reply. Lelouch ran to keep up with his giant strides. People in uniform hurried to and from the direction of his sister's bedroom down the hall. "What..."_

_ "Silence." His tone brook no objection. Lelouch followed him meekly. He was scared. He saw his father once a month and they rarely talked. He wanted to be with Nunnally and he wanted his mother. Where was mother?  
_

_Charles led him to the empty library and closed the door. Satisfied that they were alone, the Emperor lowered himself until he was close to eye-level with his son. His eyes were dark and the rims were red. "Now, look at me and listen carefully to what I have to say…"_

Lelouch opened his eyes and the world came into focus. He had broken out in a sweat and strands of his hair clung to his pale forehead. He could recall nothing from the dream but had the strange feeling that he seen it before. Some nights, increasingly rare as the years passed, he would wake up in the middle of the night and find his eyes wet, and he would know he had just dreamed about Marianne. This dream was different; it was as if his mind let down its guard in slumber and gave him a glimpse of something he was not supposed to see, and then he would wake up just in time, banishing the shadowy words and images in a flash.

It was all speculation of course. After all, how could his own mind act against him?

Climbing out of bed, nearly tripping on the gnarled sheets in the process, he walked to the table where a glass and pitcher sat. Feeling a unexpected breeze against his warm skin, he noticed he had left the French doors to the balcony open. The silken curtains swayed, and there was a sweet scent in the air from the flowers outside. He locked the doors, pulled back the sheets and tried to sleep.

* * *

Clovis lowered himself into the Jacuzzi full with bubbles and deeply inhaled the refreshing aroma of grapefruit oil. He was not a particular fan of grapefruit, but liked the fact that it took one ton of peel to produce 10 grams of oil. Mozart's concertos played from concealed speakers, transporting the prince to Strasbourg. This was how Clovis liked to start his days, and woe be unto the servant who interrupted his morning baths for any reason.

He reviewed the day ahead. In the morning he was scheduled to give a press conference on continued efforts to apprehend the infamous outlaw Zero.

"At this moment, I have ordered all law enforcement to make the arrest of Zero their top priority. All leads are being investigated, no resources spared… I am also announcing that the award for information leading to Zero's capture is hereby raised to the cool sum of… One million Pounds! No, wait, make that… 800,000… 750,000? 500,000. Yes. The cool sum of 500,000 Pounds. And if the renegade Zero and any of his accomplices are foolish enough to remain within our borders, rest assured he will be swiftly brought to justice."

Clovis had no doubt that the culprits had fled Area Eleven's borders and were far beyond of his jurisdiction by now, which was fine with him. Capturing the vigilante who invaded a fortress and prevailed in a shootout with 30 mercenaries would be some other governor's headache.

He cleared his throat, envisioning the cameras and faces of the roomful of journalists spellbound by his every word. "I would also like to take this opportunity to assure everyone that Area Eleven has never been safer, and there is no better place in the world… the Imperial realm, to live, visit, and do business… Sebastian?"

Rehearsing in the Jacuzzi made him thirsty. The butler placed a glass of Mimosa in the prince's hand. Clovis sipped, swept back his golden tendrils with one hand and pronounced the drink satisfactory. Sebastian was a rare gem among butlers who could consistently mix a Mimosa to meet his exacting standards, and who was really named Sebastian at birth (as warranted by the butler agency). It meant he was substantially more expensive to hire, but was worth it for the kudos one received from having a butler named Sebastian. "TV."

The mini-theater screen displayed twelve channels simultaneously. The dutiful butler, holding the remote, waited for his master's pleasure. Clovis scanned them quickly and frowned; something was going on. "Seventy-Seven."

Area Eleven News filled the screen. Cameras showed footage of soldiers riding on military vehicles and unfamiliar KMFs inching down packed urban streets, flanked by cheering onlookers. At first he thought he was watching documentary footage, or perhaps a trailer from a politically-incorrect, intentionally provocative upcoming Hollywood piece of filth.

Then the camera showed what was clearly a photo-op of the former Japanese Cabinet Secretary, wading ashore in knee-deep water, a general in Chinese Federation uniform besides him and a flag of Japan waving behind them like the sun. Sawasaki looked confidently into the camera and announced that as promised seven years ago, he had returned.

Sebastian flinched when His Highness hurled his Mimosa at the wall. An impressive string of perfect Parisian profanities followed. Clovis stepped out from the Jacuzzi, bubbles clinging to his form like an enraged Venus emerging from the sea. "Phone!"

The handset was in Clovis' hand in a second. "Hello? Yes... I saw it on the morning news. Do you understand me? My Area is being invaded and I am learning about it on TV!" He extended one arm as several maids appeared to towel him off and dress him. He did not like what the other end had to say. "I don't care who they are, I want bombs away over their heads by the time I arrive at my office. Understand?"

Clovis hung up. "Sebastian!"

"Yes Your Highness."

Clovis pointed at the ceiling. A moment later the pretty violin concerto ceased and was replaced by stirring Wagner. Clovis closed his eyes and soaked it in; listening to Mozart while crushing his enemies would be like pairing red meat with white wine, or white sox with black shoes. Clovis shuddered at the thought.

_That would just be so wrong._

_To be Continued_

* * *

Author's Notes: Where to begin?

I took the BAR, and I was planning a trip to help myself forget that I took the BAR when I found a job at a firm. Although it requires me to get up at 6:30 every morning and commute three hours round-trip in increasing inclement weather, I'm glad to be working and consider myself lucky.

Now that the bleeding in the checking account has been halted, I find myself able to write again. Steve Jobs' passing (R.I.P., Wizard of Cupertino) prompted me to examine my current station in life: I was reminded that life is too short (particularly true in his case), and work is a big part of life, and that true satisfaction comes only when we feel we're doing great work, and to do great work we must love what we do, and we should not settle or stop searching until we find what we love doing.

I'm still searching for what I love, but at the moment, even after a hiatus of more than a year, it is clear that I like bringing this story to people who enjoy it more than my current job, way more. I'm not sure what that means; too bad Steve is no longer around or I'd have asked him. For now though, I'll keep on writing, and I hope you'll keep on reading too.


	28. The Three Princes

Chapter 28: The Three Princes

"_Dear Diary, _

_Politicians are taking up more and more time on TV. When I asked what was so important that One Piece had to be rescheduled, dad explained that it's politics. I said I didn't understand. He went on to explain that Britannia wants our Sakuradite, and the Prime Minister wants to challenge them, but others say that is too dangerous. That's why One Piece was rescheduled._

_No one mentions war. Sensei said war is impossible. Our last war was a long time ago, when grandma was my age, and it was so terrible everyone agreed it could never happen again. _

_XxXxX_

_Dear Diary,_

_Politics were forgotten because today is the start of Summer Koshien. But not for long; two innings in the match on TV is interrupted for breaking news: Europe and the Chinese Federation condemn Britannia and fully support Japan's cause, but did not promise they would come help us if peace talks failed. A political science expert talked about the significance of the announcement. He used a lot of big words; the gist was Europe has no money and China does not meddle in other countries' affairs._

_The news flash lasted fifteen minutes and coverage of the game continued; thank goodness no one scored. I cheered on our home team. Dad left the living room and talked with mom for a long time._

_XxXxX_

_Dear Diary, _

_Today the Prime Minister appeared on TV looking very grave. He told us that Japan stood alone and called on all of us to defend the country. Afterwards the adults in the neighborhood gathered outside; no one knew what would happen next. We glued ourselves to the screen. The opposition parties introduced a motion of no confidence; it failed by four votes. When the final count was announced a shouting match broke out and turned into a brawl. Two hours later a reporter from Hawaii said Pearl Harbor was closed to visitors. The base's docks were empty; no one knows where all the sailors and ships went. _

_I was awoken by the tsunami warning sirens while lying in bed that night, but there had been no earthquake. It was just a drill._

_XxXxX_

_Dear Diary, _

_Mom says we're going to Grandma's. Dad packed his fishing rods. He talked about how he'd catch our meals; I doubt it. I packed this week's Hana to Yume, a bag of caramels, my swimsuit, and my Walkman so I can listen to the tournament. The freeway was packed with others leaving Tokyo, and mom nagged dad for not taking the train. I heard the bad news just as I reached the midpoint of my manga: Koshien was postponed! First cartoons, then baseball. Things must be really serious."_

_The Diary of Haruka__; HarperCollins, 2015."_

* * *

_Somewhere on the island of Kyushu, Area Eleven_

In an abandoned factory hidden behind high walls, men and women in lab coats hustled about loading cargo into a row of delivery vans. What they could not bring they destroyed; incinerators roared, filling the air with an acrid stench. An industrial compressor mashed non-flammables into veiny blocks that were fork-lifted out back and buried beneath a mountain of gutted cars. The methods were a far cry from the clinical nature of their profession, but time was running out. Their orders were to erase all trace of their ever having been there.

"One hour! We leave in one hour!"

General Bartley dabbed the sweat on his bald head with his dainty handkerchief. He was a man who perspired easily—at boarding school, his classmates dubbed him Prespirus Asperus—and he had not stopped sweating since news of rebels seizing Fukuoka Base. His collar was filthy, his throat was hoarse from the disgusting air and from screaming at his staff. Bartley locked himself in the foreman's office and worked the desktop phone. The wireless networks were overloaded after the pretender Sawasaki's landing before going offline altogether, jammed by signals from the Base—ironically, a capability intended to help quell civil unrest.

His instructions were clear: When threatened with compromise, Bartley was to cover his tracks and move posthaste to the secured zone. That had been Fukuoka, a mere three hour drive away. Now his goal was to get as far away as possible _from_ Fukuoka before the rebel perimeter expanded and closed his escape routes.

Bartley gripped the dusty phone—one of his technicians was just old enough to remember how copper landlines operated and repaired it. The phone threatened to slip from his damp palms.

"Sir! This is Bartley … Yes, the sample is stable and ready to move, but the rebels control the crossings to the mainland and the airports and… We cannot stay here! If we are discovered, if your role came to light…"

Bartley stopped abruptly, mouth agape as though an invisible hand grabbed his throat, and the color drained from his face. "No, no, of course not, please forgive me, I was not myself… I understand. Your humble servant."

XxXxXxXxX

"Look." From his seat by the window, clusters and lines of colorful dots—umbrellas carried by pedestrians and commuters—were visible through the rain and mist, "Even in a crisis they keep good order."

Sitting across the narrow cabin, Villetta fixed the headset over her long silver hair.

"Perhaps crisis is hyperbole. Compared to seven years ago, this must feel like a drill for the people of Tokyo." The prince mused as they flew by a dripping billboard with a girl sipping a bottle of iced tea.

Villetta said nothing, not even bothering to look up from her notebook. A patch of turbulence shook their transport. Lelouch hooked his finger beneath his suddenly snug collar. With no one to talk to, he looked outside again and saw one of the heavy gunships flying escort, but it was not danger from without that made him uneasy.

Following the incident at the hotel, Villetta had insisted that he cease associating with Kallen, who she deemed a security risk. While Marika and Claudio were satisfied by the prince's story, the baroness found the circumstances surrounding his steamy tryst with the redhead incredible.

Lelouch anticipated that she would not be so easily convinced:

"_Have you proof that Miss Stadtfeld is an agent with a hostile agenda?"_

"_No, but her—pardon my choice of words—wanton behavior presents risks that outweigh any benefit."_

_He smiled. "Having experienced them first hand, I think it fair to say that I am the better judge of the risks and benefits."_

Lelouch hoped that would allay Villetta's concerns. They did not. When Lelouch visited Nunnally and the Student Council he increasingly noticed his trusted lieutenant hovering in the background like an overbearing parent, thinly disguised in a tracksuit with a whistle dangled around her neck. Before long the student body began to buzz about a pretty new PE teacher.

Appreciative for her concern but feeling stifled, Lelouch tried again to assuage Villetta, omitting the details of how he had Suzaku trail Kallen and learn of her complicated family history. _"Colonel, you'll be relieved to know that I have conducted a thorough personal investigation, and I assure you that Miss Stadtfeld is above suspicion."_

He was not sure what went wrong—perhaps it was his smugness, which sometimes got the better of him—but Villetta withered him with a look that would have frozen mammoths.

"_Indeed? I have no doubt your highness' investigation was thorough, and that Miss Stadtfeld was perfectly cooperative with… the probe, but I question your impartiality in reaching the conclusion, given the distractions she presents."_

As she excused herself he heard her mutter, "_Men_."

They disembarked on top of the Governor's Palace, where they were greeted by one of Clovis' secretaries. Fighter jets roared overhead as the sky continued to pour. Security on the ground was visibly heightened with Elite Guard troopers lurking on every corner. Lelouch noticed the many vacant desks. "Has the Governor sent everyone home?"

The girl guiding them smiled, "Only the Honorary Britannians."

Lelouch had already been briefed on the known facts: Two days ago, a Marine air station in Okinawa contacted Tokyo, forwarding a report from SS-72, _HMS Black Acre_,observing Chinese Federation forces landing on Western Kyushu. Tokyo immediately contacted Fukuoka Base, which reported no unusual activity. The confusion caused by the conflicting accounts was resolved when the submarine ceased transmission. Around six AM, reports of foreign troops began trickling in from local police stations. The rumors were confirmed when online bulletins and the blog sphere exploded with photos and videos of Chinese knightmare frames and Japanese soldiers driving through the suburbs and approaching Fukuoka City proper.

Shortly after, all of Area Eleven tuned in to watch Sawasaki Atsushi, former Chief Cabinet Secretary of Japan, proclaim the liberation of Kyushu and himself the president of the new Japanese Republic. That was twenty-four hours ago.

"Imbeciles!"

Clovis' voice reverberated into the hallway. Inside the command center, he found his brother screaming at a group of officials. "What idiots work for me that I learn about an invasion of my area from the morning news? Do you realize how this makes me look? I'll have all of you fired for this!"

The tirade continued for another minute before Clovis booted the hapless men out. The room was alive with activity, staff keeping their heads down to avoid attracting the Governor's ire. Clovis shook his head as he walked towards Lelouch, palms up. "Good help is so hard to find."

Lelouch thought of the Honorary Britannians sent home and the current state of short-handedness. "Perhaps I may be of some assistance."

"I appreciate it. Your presence alone has increased the intelligence in this room two fold."

They stood before the main display, which showed north western Kyushu and a rotating pyramid denoting Fukuoka base. "The Navy has finally stirred from their slumber and closed the strait. The Federation's transports have scampered home and they've been smart enough to stay there, else the fish would feast aplenty."

Lelouch took measure of the situation: Elements of a Heavy Division, with its full strength of KMFs, were moving south from Hokkaido. There were plenty of troops in Area Eleven to confront the invaders, estimated at two brigades. The presence of the Royal Navy and Air Force meant a battle would be lopsided. "Any updates on Fukuoka Base?"

"No. The Federation had to have inside help, which is why I've put Honorary Britannians on administrative leave. "

"But you don't know the insider was an Eleven."

Clovis looked askance at his brother. "Who else could it be?"

Lelouch said nothing. A blue phone embedded in the desk rang. Clovis answered it himself. "General? I've been waiting to hear from you. I gave you orders to destroy enemy forces wherever they're found. Where are the explosions… what? Ordered to stand down? On whose authority?"

The doors to the conference room opened and the noise in the room died down. The phone was left dangling by its cord.

"… Schneizel."

"I came as soon as I heard." The second prince shed his dripping bridge coat and handed it to Kanon. He wore a light gray suit underneath, modest next to his usual regal wardrobe. "We must not provoke war with the Federation."

"Provoke? They started it!" Clovis' voice crackled. "All due respect, Lord High Chancellor, but this is my Area and as governor it is my duty to defend it."

"Of course, but the decision to go to war is not ours to make."

The chancellor's eyes lingered on the prominent portrait of the Emperor, and with that gentle reminder, he turned to the roomful of tense faces and smiled disarmingly, assuming authority without usurpation. "Please, continue as you were."

As work resumed, Schneizel opened the door to the governor's office and placed his hand on Clovis' shoulder. He looked at Lelouch, who followed after his brothers. When the three were alone Clovis stumbled to the sofa and plopped down, stretching out along its length.

"Has everyone had breakfast?" Schneizel rang for service, "Can't fight on an empty stomach."

"I don't want breakfast." Clovis hissed, fisting his hand against his eyes. "The barbarians are at the gates, now is not the time."

"Clovis." Schneizel addressed him quietly, "The more pressing the crisis, the more we must proceed cautiously."

"But…" Clovis fell silent. Lelouch watched Schneizel stroll to the great bay windows behind the governor's chair. A gale lashed fiercely against the thick double-paned windows. Two servants pushed in a trolley with fruit, pastries, and hot entrees.

"Thank you, we will serve ourselves."

The maids bowed and left. Schneizel filled and put a plate in front of the besieged Governor, who massaged his temples as though grappling with a hangover. "Eat."

Soon all three were seated around the coffee table. Schneizel served the tea; the waft of Darjeeling and the chink of silver and China restored a semblance of normalcy. "When was the last time the three of us dined together?"

Lelouch reached for the sugar bowl and picked up one cube for his brother. "Christmas, I think."

"That recent? It feels like more than a year ago."

Next door, as men and women scrambled to respond to the invasion, Schneizel chatted as though the troubles were a world away. Lelouch compared the two styles of leadership he saw in the past half-hour: one bluntly authoritarian, the other by calm example. While both could be effective—one need only look to the current Emperor—it was clear which was better received on this occasion.

"And how is life with the Ashfords?"

Lelouch replied vaguely. "Passable."

"Hmmm." The Chancellor examined his young brother over the rim of his cup. "I heard of an incident at the Ambassador Hotel. How did you so upset the girl?"

The eleventh prince grimaced. "I have matters under control."

"Hell hath no fury." Clovis snickered, coaxed from his brooding. "A week ago Cornelia scolded m—the third time—for letting him move into Ashford Academy."

"Why?"

"She's worried that little brother, sheltered his whole life and suddenly exposed to a pheromone-filled school will be overtaken by instinct and…"

The youngest sibling's countenance darkened in warning. "Clovis."

"…make Ashford his harem." Clovis popped a grape in his mouth. "Considering the paternal lineage, I agree her concern is not unfounded."

The eleventh prince stood up. "If there's nothing else you'd rather discuss..."

The chancellor chuckled and waved for him to sit down. "I'm sorry. I didn't ask you here just to pry."

Lelouch waited with his arms crossed. Schneizel finished his tea and put the saucer aside. "His Majesty has asked me to resolve this situation."

A resigned look came over Clovis' face. "What did father say?"

"He's displeased… but that is his usual disposition."

"Am I to be dismissed?"

"No, the matter did not come up."

"He always thought I was in over my head." Clovis' shoulders sagged. "Everyone does."

"You've done well rebuilding Area Eleven. He is not concerned about your record as Governor." The Chancellor leaned slightly forward. "His Majesty _is_ concerned about the private research you've been pursuing outside your capacity as Governor."

Lelouch was taken aback by the violent change in Clovis' body language, snapping from depression to bewilderment and crumbling into trepidation. The Governor's eyes darted to his like a drowning man looking for a lifeline before shifting his gaze to his plate, unable to look Schneizel in the face. "I… I was going to report as soon as we verified the subject. You understand, after so many false positives…"

"Good, because that's how I explained it to the Emperor, 'Clovis is just proceeding with caution.'" The Chancellor smiled. "If father believed you were going behind his back, it would not be me, but Lord Waldstein here making inquiries instead."

Among Britannian nobility, nothing was dreaded more than an unannounced visit from the Knight of One, the Emperor's emissary of last resort.

It was clear to the eleventh prince by now Schneizel's was here for business besides the Federation's invasion, the same business which Clovis tried and failed to hide, and which Schneizel wanted him to hear… though whether to his benefit he could not ascertain. "What is this about?"

The eighteenth century clock standing in the corner ticked loudly. Clovis made to speak but Schneizel cut him off. "There is a specimen with qualities we are interested in. We call it C."

"Biological?" Schneizel nodded. "I thought we banned those types of weapons."

"We have." The Chancellor turned to admire a model of a three mast frigate inside a bottle. "Just because we've renounced the dark arts doesn't mean we stop studying them."

Finding the tea weak, Lelouch poured himself coffee. Schneizel continued. "C is, as far as we can tell, immortal. Not indestructible—it is easily damaged, but it seems to possess infinite capacity for self-regeneration, even when apparently destroyed."

"Kind of like cancer."

"Kind of."

Lelouch picked a biscuit from the tray. "You mentioned qualities. Why else are we interested?"

"Everyone who contracts C dies."

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but it was difficult to tell whether it was nature or manmade. "Some last longer, but all succumb in time. No group is safer than others, as C appears to choose its victims randomly, hence our interest."

"I see." Schneizel's way of describing C made it sound like some mythological evil rather than a malignant microorganism. It reminded Lelouch of the plague and how its Medieval victims ascribed it in supernatural terms.

"After C was secured, it was moved to somewhere in Kyushuu, far from our known research sites. That decision backfired, as the rebels and Federation control most of the island."

Schneizel looked at Clovis, whose lips were pressed into a hard line, before turning back to Lelouch. "We must recover C. Even more important is that the project remains secret. Few know its existence and I can only rely on those I completely trust."

"What would you have me do?"

XxXxXxXxX

Lloyd did not receive his orders well.

"No, no, no, a thousand times no! Has the Chancellor gone mad?"

Cecile held the letter signed and sealed by the Chancellor, requiring Camelot to ready Lancelot for deployment and transport, "to escort General Lelouch on a mission. It'd be nice if they told us more."

Lloyd mumbled as he paced. "What can be so important that they would send my Lancelot? It can't be that important if I have not heard of it."

Cecile remarked pointedly, "Maybe they kept it from you because of its importance."

Suzaku reread the brief one page communique, the cover page of which listed the names of those who were privileged to read its contents, including his. "It says it's a rescue mission."

"No, they have specialists for that sort of thing." The scientist waved his hand dismissively, then turned on the young soldier with eyes pleading. "Don't go, Kururugi. The horror! You, a novice, behind enemy lines? It's suicide!"

"But if someone out there needs our help…"

"Grrr, you are such a power puff!" Lloyd groaned in exasperation as he scratched his head. "Fine, go. But promise me you'll come back. If anything should happen to you who will pilot my precious? Promise you'll return, and if ever you're faced with the choice of saving Prince Lelouch or preserving Lancelot, just remember: the Emperor can sire plenty more princes, but there's only one Lancelot."

Suzaku laughed nervously. Lloyd held up his finger as if to pin down an emerging thought.

"Wait, suppose you were sick? If you can't go, then Lancelot can't go. Quick, Cecile made biscuits, in my office, they should put you down a good couple days at…"

Cecile chopped Lloyd at the base of the neck. He slid to the floor in a heap. She smiled at Suzaku like the big sister everyone wished for, "Bring yourself and the prince home safe."

XxXxXxXxX

Evening found Clovis and Schneizel retired to the cigar room of the Royal Residence. Clovis abhorred the smell of tobacco and how they tainted his clothes, so the dark-paneled room was just used for quiet entertainment. He poured brandy from a decanter and handed the tumbler to his older brother. "Where is your valet?"

"Upstairs packing for my trip."

"Aren't parleys supposed to be in neutral countries?"

"Few choices nearby: We said no to Hong Kong. They wouldn't agree to Singapore. Taiwan will do. "

The muted television reported little change in the situation: Britannian military buildup, rebels reaching out to civilians, continued talks between the Federation and the Empire, and rumors of an impending top-level meeting from an anonymous inside source. Clovis poured himself sherry and raised his glass. "To anonymous sources, without whom we could scarcely provide previews to the public."

A record player played on low volume; a tenor sang a aria, filled with hope and longing. Several minutes later, the third prince looked into the bottom of his glass. "You should not have brought him into this."

"Who?"

"Lelouch." He turned to his brother across the room, a rare look of reproach for the man he looked up to since boyhood. "You're putting him in danger."

Schneizel rested his feet on an Ottoman as he admired the view of the Concession glittering at night. The rain subsided in the afternoon, leaving clear skies and unlimited visibility. "I was telling the truth, was I not?"

"Misleading as it was, yes, I suppose so."

"Seven years now, and he's still searching for answers. He won't stop." The second prince sipped his drink and sighed. "If what I told him today is all he knows, maybe he won't look further in that direction."

"You were protecting him?"

Schneizel picked up the yellow sleeve of the record being played; a comedy that avoids a tragic ending. "No good comes from digging up the past. Marianne was killed by terrorists. That's all."

The track ended. Clovis stood next to the record player as the needle drew across blank plate with a whisper. His mind dwelled on the Blood Feud from the previous generation and the recent demise of his two half-brothers, already forgotten by many. "I just want him and Nunnally to have a normal life."

Schneizel finished his drink. "We're Charles Britannia's children. Normal is relative."

"Something to aspire towards." Clovis smiled as he picked up the record player's arm and set it aside. "If I tell Euphie where you're sending Lelouch, she will not speak to you for a year."

"Just don't tell Cornelia."

XxXxXxXxX

The next morning, Clovis surveyed the front from his chair in the center of the command center. Footage from satellites, spy planes, drones and ground vehicles were displayed on the monitor wall. What he saw discouraged him. "That is a lot of knightmares."

Villetta stood by, asked by Lelouch to advise the Governor in his absence. "The Chinese brigades are heavy on KMFs. We count two Chinese and one Japanese brigade, though they're hard to distinguish because of shared uniforms and equipment."

"Sneaky. In any event, we'll hold fire until the Chancellor has had a chance to meet with the Federation." Clovis grumbled. He had more than enough firepower to flatten Fukuoka Base, but was compelled to wait. "Hello, what am I looking at on screen five?"

"A feed from one of our high altitude spy planes."

"It's so pixelated I can't tell their tents from the trees."

"Sir, the resolution is limited by the camera…"

"I know that! So have them fly lower."

Villetta relayed the order and received a copy. Over the next ten minutes the imagery gradually improved. An audio link was established to the cockpit.

"_This is U201, now at 16,000 meters, all green. Enemy activity normal... Wait, we're being painted! Incoming! Countermeasures, break, break…" _The footage flashed white and was lost along with audio. Clovis held his breathe for what seemed like an hour until the pilot came back online.

"_Command, this is U201. Engine 1 is gone. Stick sluggish. We're RTB. Appears enemy has taken control of our air defense systems and overridden IFF from Fukuoka Base. I repeat: SAMs active and hostile. Over and out."_

"Pull them out. Get all of them out, now!" Clovis slumped back into his chair. "Well, there goes the plan."

_To Be Continued._

* * *

Author's Notes:

Congratulations on birthdays, graduations, and anniversaries! Because it has been at least that long since last time.

What have I been up to? Twelve hour days including three hour commute. Not as bad as it sounds; mass transit lets me sleep, read, and write, which I do in that order. For six to seven months I talked to people about ways I could publish this story, gave up, then spent four to five months thinking about how I could publish a story like this one. Still working on it. In the meantime the writing itself was undertaken with long fits and short starts, and when I did write it was like trying to chisel the statue of David with a toothpick. Painfully slow.

Many of you have shown unbelievable patience and given me tremendous encouragement over the past year and more. Thank you.


End file.
